Metal Gear Solid 3: The Uprising
by Ray AP3
Summary: The Patriots blackmail Raiden, forcing him on a deadly assassin's mission, and Snake goes on a hunt for Metal Gear RAY... in Russia! Solidus, Revolver Ocelot and Liquid return! I NEED REVIEWS, GODDAMNIT! (I now accept anonymous reviews!)
1. Chapter 1: Arrival

Big Boss  
  
Solid Snake  
  
Psycho Mantis  
  
Gray Fox  
  
Liquid Snake  
  
Revolver Ocelot  
  
Vulcan Raven  
  
These are just some of the many names that may appear in one's mind when thinking of the greatest soldiers on Earth. Their names alone strike fear into the hearts of many a cold, hardened warrior. Their feats seem paranormal, inhuman.  
  
Men speak of these soldiers, of Big Boss' perfection on the battlefield, of Fox's seemingly impossible accomplishments. They recollect the stories of Liquid Snake's cunning and mental power, Raven and his inhuman, otherworldly toughness and strength (both mental and physical), and of Psycho Mantis, the psychic phenomenon. Fear strikes their hearts when Revolver Ocelot is mentioned, his quick hand giving many men nightmares, or, in most cases, instant death.  
  
However, some speak of an even grater entity than any of these men. Some dare not speak his name aloud. His is a well-known name; even the most casual military official could write a full novel on this God among soldiers.  
  
There has been many a tale of this man. A man who most thought to be invincible, his spirit unbreakable, his will indestructible. The man to whom five Metal Gears have fallen, thus adding to the myth of his invincibility. It's no wonder that the toughest of hearts stopped upon his presence.  
  
This man has decimated armies single-handedly... while his will remains as strong as it ever was. Stories of men like him are habitually told to green soldiers, scaring them, convincing them to work harder. That is, however, until they came face-to-face with this deity among men. Even he had been told stories about men such as the kind that he would become.  
  
Some say that bullets have no effect on this man's body. Many say that he has surpassed Big Boss as the "Perfect Soldier," although his were the inferior genes as a result of the Les Enfants Terribles project; his brother received the dominant solder genes from his "father," Big Boss.  
  
Most say, as well, that he is a legend that will never die, physically and metaphysically. Few, however, know the reality behind these myths. This is a chronicle of events that may or may not reveal that reality.  
  
Of course, one man said:  
  
_"The reality is no match for the legend"—_ Quote from Solid Snake  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------  
  
The streets of Russia had just suffered a massive snowstorm. Inches and inches of snow, ice and frost covered the city streets and sidewalks. A blackout had also just occurred, with the only light from the sliver of moonlight high in the sky, the city drowned in darkness. However, there were no cars speeding by on the streets and no pedestrians on the sidewalks. But, outside of the city, over a remote military base in the middle of nowhere, a chopper carried two men through the sub-zero temperatures.  
  
One man wore an all white sneaking suit and a bulletproof vest of the same color. His custom bandana, blue in color, kept his seemingly always-messy brown hair in place. On his face was an expressionless look, as always. One look at this man could tell you that he was the hero who had saved the world from Metal Gear a total of five times. This man was a legend among legends, known only by his codename, Solid Snake. Snake's silenced Beretta M92F, which also doubled as a tranquilizer gun, was strapped into its holster on his hip. Several fragmentation and chaff grenades found their way into small packets on Snake's vest. A combat knife's hilt extended out of a holster on Snake's left hip, ready to be drawn if needed. Snake also never went without one thing on these missions: cigarettes.  
  
The second man appeared to be civilian, the chopper's pilot. He had medium length, brown hair and a pair of small spectacles that continually slid down his nose. He was Snake's partner, Hal Emmerich, better known as "Otacon". He gave himself the codename, after the Otaku Anime Convention, a show that occurs in Japan every year. Hal would dare not miss it, for he had, in Snake's opinion, an "unhealthy" affinity for Japanese anime. Snake and Otacon first met at Shadow Moses, where Snake saved Otacon from Frank Jaeger, codenamed Gray Fox, one of the best soldiers to ever fight on behalf Fox-Hound. Otacon and Snake were the best of friends, but he hated the fact that Snake smoked.  
  
"Snake, those cigarettes are gonna catch up to you one day," said Otacon.  
  
"Only if these damn missions don't catch up to me first," Snake replied. "I'm freezing in below zero temperatures in a cramped helicopter that's soaring above the middle of nowhere. Not exactly my idea of a good time."  
  
Otacon knew that Snake was putting on an act, however. He knew Snake, and he knew that he would do anything for the good of innocent people.  
  
"You want one?" Snake offered a cigarette to Otacon, only half-joking.  
  
Otacon didn't say anything, only concentrating on piloting the chopper.  
  
"Alright, your loss." Snake took another puff, and blew the smoke out of the open chopper door.  
  
"Alright, Snake, let's go over this one more time, in case you forgot. You need to infiltrate the base, avoiding any unnecessary confrontations. If I've said it once, I've said it a million times, Snake. We aren't terrorists. You cannot afford to be seen in there. The Russian Military has captured Metal Gear RAY, and you need to do everything in your power to find out what they're planning."  
  
"The Russian Military has RAY? Why would they want it?" replied Snake before taking another puff of his cigarette.  
  
"No clue," said Otacon from the pilot's seat. "I only know this because of Russian Military messages that I intercepted. Couldn't get much more on it, though. You need to find where it is, and destroy it by any means necessary."  
  
Snake did not show it, but he was flaring on the inside at the sound of that name: "The Patriots." This was an organization that had tried to kill him numerous times, but couldn't ever seem to do just that. It was Snake's personal job to make sure that they never did.  
  
Snake looked out of the chopper through his scope, and spotted a large building with several cranes and barrels surrounding it. The base was not very high, but it was reasonably wide. Several other smaller buildings also surrounded it.  
  
"Is that it, Otacon?" asked Snake.  
  
"Yeah," said Otacon.  
  
"Where should I land? The roof?"  
  
"No can do. The roof is wired with anti-personnel sensors. If you so much as step on the roof, every alarm in the building will go off. You need to jump. HALO. I'll get as close as possible." Otacon then hovered a good fifteen thousand feet above the base.  
  
"Wait, Snake," Otacon yelled before Snake got ready to jump. "Before I forget."  
  
Hal tossed his partner a small device, no bigger than an average spy camera. It actually looked similar to a spy camera; a small, black, cylindrical gadget with a lens on its end. Snake's gloved hands gripped it out of the air and the soldier examined it before he asked his friend,  
  
"And this is...?"  
  
"It's a tool of my own invention. I call it the 'holo-cam.' What it does is emit an eerily-similar hologram of yourself; you can use it to fool your enemies, but remember... you can only use it once. So make sure that it's put to good use when you do."  
  
"Will do," Snake told Hal as he placed the "Holo-cam" into an empty pocket on his vest.  
  
Snake then stood and ventured to the front of the door, slipped on his oxygen mask, made sure his parachute was secured, and prepared for deployment, a HALO (High Altitude, Low Opening) jump. He would jump from the plane, then open the parachute at an estimated five hundred or one thousand feet above the ground. If he opened the parachute any earlier, he'd be a sitting duck, floating toward the base, an easy target for enemy sentries. If he opened it any later, he crash to the ground with an impact so hard that he would likely break his legs, so timing was key.  
  
"On my command, Snake!" Otacon then waited about three seconds, making sure he had good position. "Go!"  
  
With that, Snake leapt from the chopper. He gradually built up speed, diving with his upper body facing the ground, the way all military skydivers are deployed. His bandana was whipped up from the force of the wind; he could feel the bitter cold biting against his skin like sandpaper.  
  
He approximated his descent speed, and, when he decided that he was about five hundred feet from his landing, he pulled the cord on his parachute, and it opened up, slowing his fall. He had calculated right, and he landed in the snow hard, but not too hard. A slight pain shot up his legs, but he shook it off. He took off his oxygen mask and laid it on the ground. He then took out his scope and looked toward the base, and saw four sentries guarding the door, two standing stationary in front of the door, two patrolling on the sides, and most likely one patrolling in the back. He decided to contact Otacon via codec; hopefully, he could help. The codec was truly a perfect innovation for stealth missions like these; it was a means of communication between two people at a time, using a sound receiver located in the inner ear. This made it impossible for anyone but the users to hear the conversation.  
  
"Otacon, here, Snake. What's up?"  
  
"There's no way I'm getting in there undetected. Any ideas?"  
  
"Hold on," said Otacon. There was a short pause; silence. Then, "Here you go, Snake. There's a vent on the right side of the main base that you can go through that leads to an elevator. Try that."  
  
"Thanks, Otacon. Snake out." He faced that side of the base so that he'd be able to go straight there after planning his entry. He crouched down slightly and walked slowly towards the base. He could not hear his own footsteps, even with his acute soldier hearing.  
  
He stopped walking just out of sight of the enemy and watched the sentry on the right side. His route wasn't very complex, just a patrol on the side of the base, walking back and forth, repetitively. Snake waited, and ventured towards the base as soon as the guard turned around. He went behind him, looking for the vent at the same time. He saw it, but it had a cover, and it was about eight and a half feet above the ground, and Snake was around 6'1". He'd have to take out the sentry before going in. He snuck up behind him, treading softly, like an actual snake stalks its victim.  
  
Suddenly, he struck, grabbing the sentry's arm and turning him around. The enemy was startled; he let out a short gasp. Snake grabbed his AKs-74u with his left hand and held it down, and used his right hand to first punch the enemy in the face with a right hook, and then deliver a straight punch; he could just about hear the bones in the guard's nose cracking in two... or three... or more.  
  
Snake then disarmed the enemy by giving the soldier a fierce blow, taking the guard's assault rifle out of his hands, and forcing it diagonally down onto the guard's skull. The butt of the gun smacked against his cranium, immediately knocking the guard to the ground. The enemy fell in the snow, unconscious, and Snake could see the blood leaking from the enemy's face, discoloring the black balaclava.  
  
Snake held on to the AK as he made his way to the gate so that the guard couldn't find it when and if he regained his consciousness.  
  
Snake moved on to the vent and jumped up, grabbing the cover, his gloved fingers fitting in between the spaces of the gate-like cover. He hung above the ground, trying to rip it off. Nothing doing, however, as Snake's attempts failed. He then, ever resourceful, put his boots against the wall, and pushed against the wall and he came off, landing on the ground... vent cover in hand.  
  
He threw the vent cover inside the vent, so as not to leave any clues of his presence there for any of the guards. He also tossed in the guard's AK, and then attempted to enter himself.  
  
Snake leapt and barely managed to grab the bottom of the opening. He used his great strength to pull himself up and inside. He crawled through the ventilation system, his abdomen scraping against the metal. He continued through the series of cockroach-infested, gloomy path until he saw light, going straight up, broken up because of the spaces in the gate cover, illuminating the pitch darkness of the vent.  
  
He looked down and saw an empty elevator, which had to be what Otacon was talking about.  
  
Snake then unsheathed his knife and used it to chip away at the hinges on the cover. They eventually came off, and Snake gently lifted the cover up and left it in the vent. He left the AK in the vent as well and jumped down into the elevator, the impact of his boots on the tiled floor making no sound whatsoever. He then stood and looked at the keypad. It read, from top to bottom:  
  
Roof  
  
Floor 2 Infirmaries  
  
Floor 1 Computer Room  
  
Lower Level Conference Hall  
  
B1 Storage Room  
  
B2 Generator Room  
  
Snake pressed the button for the Generator Room, deciding to start at the lowest level and work his way up. He didn't, however, feel the familiar 'chug, chug' of the elevator going into motion. He pressed the button again, but nothing happened. He then settled on contacting Otacon on the codec. He figured from the fact that the lights weren't on that the elevator wasn't getting any power, but now he was sure.  
  
"Otacon, I got to the elevator, but it looks like the power's been cut off."  
  
"Okay, Snake. Let me take a look." There was a ten second pause, as Otacon investigated.  
  
"Umm... Snake?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What floor do you need to get to?"  
  
"The Generator Room."  
  
"And the elevator won't take you there?" asked Otacon.  
  
Snake shook his head slightly. "No."  
  
"Did you ever think that maybe the elevator is already in the Generator Room?"  
  
Snake looked stunned, as if he'd been slapped. "What the hell?!" 


	2. Chapter 2: Trouble in Paradise

Chapter 2- Trouble in Paradise  
  
At 3:42 AM, on a cold, brisk, rainy Manhattan street, not many people would be seen wandering around. Hell, not many people would be seen at all. But one man decided to go against the norm, as he was actually used to.  
  
A heavy downpour teemed down from the heavens, seemingly following the lone man everywhere that he ventured to. The heavily falling rain soaked his long hair down to the surface of his scalp, making it look shorter than it actually was. Several droplets of water also ran down the person's face; he knew not whether it was sweat, tears, or the rain that was monotonously descending on him. The person seemed not to care either.  
  
His size thirteen hiking boots slapped against the concrete and gravel repeatedly, the heavy footsteps splashing in the numerous puddles, echoing on the barren avenue. His head hung low and his hands, balled into fists, were jammed into his pockets. The man ignored the intense precipitation despite the fact that it was soaking him perpetually.  
  
His attire greatly contrasted his skin tone as well as his hair... "his attire" being an ensemble which consisted of a tight-fitting muscle-shirt that exposed the outline of his rock-hard, six-pack abs. The man also sported fingerless gloves on his hands (still shoved in the man's pockets) and a pair of black leather pants. His wrists were taped up to his forearm, and his hiking boots were on loosely, the laces dragging the ground, soaking in the seemingly infinite number of puddles in the street.  
  
His skin and hair were drastically dissimilar to his clothes. He appeared to be an of an albino complexion, his skin almost as pale as his snow-white hair, whereas his entire outfit was black in hue.  
  
This man had been under a lot of stress lately, and his mind was racking with thoughts, each leaving as quickly as it entered, being replaced by another one immediately.  
  
He thought back to the war, about all of the men whose lives were robbed... by him. The necks snapping, the slugs tearing apart brain tissue and heart valves, taking away the very being of these men. His were the fingers pulling the trigger, his were the hands snapping the collar and neck bones... his were hands of the devil... good for nothing outside of mindless killing. He was a weapon, and they were pulling the trigger, numerous times, again and again.  
  
He imagined the grief of the families of the dead soldiers; the shock and anguish on their faces as the received the news of the murder of their relative. Everyone was entitled to longevity, to be able to live a lengthy life on Earth. Was survival of the fittest really valid... or moral, for that matter?  
  
The man abruptly stopped his thoughts and reached his gloved right hand into a gun holster hidden underneath his leather pants. His hand reached around impatiently, until it found something slick and cold. He gripped it in his hand, the familiar feel too recognizable. He pulled the object out of the surreptitious compartment and brought it up in front of his eyes. He stared down the silencer and down into the barrel of his SOCOM... the taker of lives... the robber of being. He inspected it, questioning its value to him and everyone else in his life.  
  
Sometimes, he thought against himself, however. It sometimes had to be survival of the fittest. It had to be either him or them... no alternative as long as he wanted to stay alive. His actions may not have always been moral, but they were best for him.  
  
But was he really immoral for thinking of himself over the needs of others? No, definitely not. Everyone is entitled to survival... and that included him.  
  
Suddenly, someone calling out to him de-railed his train of thought.  
  
"Jack Logan?" A soft, female voice, coming from behind the soldier, said his name.  
  
The man stopped gawking at his weapon and turned around, although still keeping the sidearm in his right hand.  
  
Jack turned around and looked up the length of the street. He saw a figure walking in his direction, not in any kind of rush, taking her time. The warrior said nothing as the person approached, a slow gait in his direction. The figure then came into view, and Jack got a clearer view.  
  
The woman was slender, an almost perfect figure, full breasts, a thin waist, and wonderfully long legs. She sported a light brown three-piece suit top, and a mini-skirt of the same color that exposed about a quarter of her breathtaking, full thighs.  
  
Hers was a skin tone that could be placed somewhere between that of the average Caucasian and African-American. It leaned toward neither, staying in the middle. It was a bronze-ish shade, adding to her already beautiful features.  
  
Long, gorgeous light brown hair hung from her scalp, almost the same hue as her skin, matching stunningly with her complexion.  
  
Her face was almost perfect; hazel eyes stared at Jack, and he couldn't help but stare back. Full lips, spread with bronze-colored lipstick were placed on brilliantly smooth skin.  
  
Glad Rose isn't here... Jack thought to himself.  
  
The brunette then spoke again, interrupting Jack's thoughts... whatever they may have been.  
  
"Are you Jack Logan?"  
  
Jack tried to remain nonchalant, a harder feat than what it sounded like.  
  
"I used to be..." he responded.  
  
"Jack... Special Agent Baxter." The woman introduced herself as she flashed her badge, which happened to be hidden underneath of her top. She opened the left side for a split second, so that Jack could view the identification and nothing more.  
  
"Could I see that again?" Jack asked, his male instincts getting the better of him.  
  
"Excuse me?" said the woman, slightly taken aback.  
  
"What do you want with me?" the soldier queried, ignoring his last comment.  
  
"We need your help, Jack. It's a very urgent crisis."  
  
"Who's 'we'?"  
  
"The Patriots... maybe you've heard of us," the woman straightforwardly told him. She seemed unusually calm, but Jack paid no attention to this fact.  
  
Instead, instinct took over and he moved up and snatched his gun up into the air, the barrel centimeters from the beautiful lady's head. Jack held the sidearm being held in his right hand only, the inner depths of his soul lighting aflame at the mention of this malicious organization.  
  
"What do you want with me?!" he roared, obviously angry. He wanted no part of any schemes that this group was even somewhat involved in.  
  
Raiden's screaming did not phase the woman, however.  
  
"Jack... be a humanitarian and put... the gun... down," she told the soldier. "We don't want to hurt you, and quite frankly... we can't afford it."  
  
The woman's words perplexed the soldier, who could not fathom what he was needed for. Exploitation, manipulation... all of the above?  
  
That's when Jack felt something... a feeling like he's never felt before. His primal instincts developed during the war helped him in this instance. His brain was trying to tell him something... attempting to warn him of a certain danger that he couldn't put his proverbial finger on. It was a "sixth sense" that many soldiers developed during a war, especially one where a soldier has no backup and must watch his own back.  
  
He whipped around quickly, and found himself staring at the chin of an extremely tall, African-American man; no, he was more than that. This person was a beast of a man; he had at least a one hundred pound advantage on Jack.  
  
He wore no shirt, showing off his glistening, rock-hard, six-pack abdomen. He sported a desert-camo bottom, along with matching boots. His head had no hair on it, the rain causing the man's bald head to glisten and also soaking his dark brown goatee.  
  
He was easily three hundred-plus pounds and probably nearing, if not at, the six-and-a-half-foot mark. The stranger was monster of man, a giant. He looked unstoppable, but Jack knew this to be untrue. Everyone has a weakness; an Achilles' heel, even if they don't look as if they do.  
  
This man did not look happy with Jack, and the fact that his barrel was jammed into his shirtless chest. His brown eyes stared a hole into Raiden's, but neither man was ready to back down. They both stood their ground, not planning on pulling out any time soon.  
  
"Jack," he heard from behind him, "Put your weapon down. We don't want to do anything rash at this point in time."  
  
Raiden did nothing in response except dig the gun further into the man's chest, showing his absence of fear of this organization and their henchman. His eyes remained locked on the large, one-man attack squad, the look almost daring him to make a move.  
  
"Jack!" The woman was now obviously angry with the hardheaded soldier. "You have five seconds to put the gun down before things get physical!"  
  
Raiden then, seemingly having a change of thought, backed up one step and leaned down, slowly, and placed his SOCOM on the rain-soaked ground, a small splashing sound heard when the weapon came into contact with the damp gravel. Jack's eyes never lost contact with the linebacker-sized Patriots henchman.  
  
The gun left his grip, and he stood back up, still eyeing what he assumed to be his assumed enemy. He now stood face-to-chin with the man, not showing any fear for this gargantuan beast.  
  
Both warriors stared each other down for another five seconds before the woman, only known as "Special Agent Baxter," spoke up.  
  
"Jack..." She willed him not to do anything dangerous, but it was no use.  
  
Raiden's fist swung back and then forward, a haymaker right hook sent right to the man's left jaw. It connected intensely, the blow catching the large stranger off-guard. The forceful strike blasted him back; the man was forced to take about four steps backwards.  
  
Jack smiled, extremely satisfied with his action. His opponent was not smiling however; far from it, actually. His expression quickly changed from surprised shock to one of fury and irritation.  
  
He hastily rushed up towards Jack, ready to take out all the anger built up inside of his soul on his chin.  
  
His right hand snapped forward, a quick yet strong straight punch; it was intended to smash against Raiden's jaw. Jack's natural agility was too much, however. He easily ducked underneath the punch and countered with a blow of his own, a body shot aimed at the side of his opponent.  
  
The stranger then showed his agility, twisting and contorting his body to lean and dodge Jack's punch, a harder feat than what it sounds.  
  
Jack's head was now vulnerable, and the stranger took advantage. A swift and powerful kick connected to the left side of Raiden's skull, a jarring pain shooting through it. As a result, Jack stumbled backwards, but his opponent kept up with him and delivered a right hook that caught the soldier in the jaw. However, Jack was, somehow, able to stay on his feet.  
  
The stranger now decided to rest, allowing Raiden to regain his balance. The warrior did, and approached his opponent, adopting a traditional boxing stance, as did his foe.  
  
The Patriots' henchman then pulled a trick out of his non-existent sleeve. He feinted, that is, he faked a punch, to his left and with his left, and Jack fell for it. He attempted to block that side, and only that side, and was left vulnerable for only a split-second before he caught himself... but that was all that was needed.  
  
Raiden was then caught by a three-blow combination; first, two lightning- fast jabs and then an elbow strike that connected directly onto Jack's chin, dropping him to one knee. The Patriots' soldier then saw an opening... specifically, Jack's wide-open left jaw.  
  
A spinning martial arts kicked was aimed at that exact spot, but Raiden ducked, possibly playing possum. The sudden and unexpected miss caused the large man to stumble; he spun around so that Jack was facing his back.  
  
Raiden quickly stood and took about half-a-second to devise his plan. Still facing his opponent's back, his right boot came around and struck the soldier in his face, in the front, Jack showing off his flexibility.  
  
The impact of the blow caused even a man as monstrous as he to spin around about one hundred and eighty degrees, so that Jack was facing his front, a predicament that Raiden easily took advantage of.  
  
Before he could even think of rebounding from the attack, he was struck by Jack's tightened left fist, a hook that sent him in reverse. The man held his jaw in pain before realizing Jack was not done.  
  
He rushed towards his opponent, but was seized by the quickness of his foe. He was flipped over his enemy's back, a fireman's carry directly into a drop, planning to have Raiden's head meet the ground.  
  
But Jack's agility once again saved him, as he used the forward momentum to complete a beautiful forward flip and land on his feet. However, his adversary was swift in turning around before Jack could capitalize.  
  
The man was aggravated now, his anger getting the best of him. He swung hard with his left hand, a heavy-handed haymaker. Jack easily dodged the rather unwise, leaning under it, and responded to it with a left-handed uppercut, crashing against the bottom of his foe's chin. His neck snapped backwards as a result of the collision, but his feet stayed in place; it was as if his feet were glued to the ground.  
  
Jack's right leg then kicked the side of his adversary's chest, but it was clutched in the large man's equally large arm. Raiden was now hopping on one foot, and before he knew it, his throat was trapped a tight grasp and he was lifted off of the ground.  
  
His one free leg saved him from whatever the Patriots' soldier was planning, however. It smashed against his foe's head three times, causing his grip to weaken and forcing him to drop Jack, who landed on his feet akin to a cat.  
  
The bottom of Jack's boot then met the throat of his adversary, causing him to gag and cough up a small amount of blood. He was greatly vulnerable to attack at this time, and Jack knew that he had to make the most of it. He looked beyond his opponent, and saw a weapon that could very well end this fight.  
  
Jack sprinted towards his opponent and leapt, striking his foe's bare chest with the bottom of both of his hiking boots. The force was enough to force him off of his feet and backwards... and into a crumbling concrete wall. The man's large frame crashed scarily against it, quickly knocking it down, the man's body tangled up in the debris of the fallen wall.  
  
Jack dropped to one knee, finally able to gain some of his lost energy back... before he was attacked from behind.  
  
. 


	3. Chapter 3: The First Encounter

Chapter 3- The First Encounter  
  
The Philanthropy soldier stared intently at the elevator's double doors; anything could have been on the other side. His gloved finger then reached for the "Open Door" button, pressing it in slightly. With a 'ding!', the doors opened, sliding away from each other, separating to allow Snake entrance to the first floor. His gun was the first thing to come out of the elevator; Snake's quick hand snatched his sidearm into the air with haste. The barrel came up to bear too quickly for anything, human or not, on the other side to even hope of reacting to before being shot down.  
  
Seeing nothing that could pose much of a threat, he relaxed, but still kept his pistol in the air. His eyes wandered around the room, looking for anything that needed neutralization. Snake was a man unafraid of a fight; he was actually one who enjoyed the thrill of a good firefight. The adrenaline pumping, the feel of staring death in the eye, the adventure; Snake got a kick out of it. It could be considered an ecstasy for him.  
  
The warrior was now sure of nothing hostile being present in the room, with the exception of something that had adequate enough cleverness to evade Snake's watchful eyes. Doing so was harder than it may have seemed... Snake was good at hiding, but even better at finding others who were sneaking about.  
  
A blaring ring then vibrated Snake's eardrum. It was the all-too-familiar codec. He was tired of hearing that goddamned ring, but answered the call anyway, after finding a quick hiding spot behind a large generator. He could feel its heat when he pressed his back up against the metal exterior.  
  
"Snake, do you read?" asked Otacon on the other end.  
  
"Right here, Otacon." Otacon could tell that Snake was rather annoyed. He was actually rather easily pissed off... Otacon learned that at Shadow Moses.  
  
"What's the situation look like over there?"  
  
"I got in alright... right now I'm on the first floor... the generator room."  
  
"Have you spotted any sentries?"  
  
"None yet... things keep getting stranger around here."  
  
"They sure do," Otacon told Snake.  
  
"Otacon, can you give me a rundown on this place?"  
  
"Yeah, hold on, Snake."  
  
Snake heard the faint sounds of Otacon's hands moving quickly across his keyboard.  
  
"Alright, Snake. There are five floors, the other four are all above you, as you probably already know. There are also several smaller facilities outside of the one you're in. Strange. I can't find any place that could house as big a weapon as Metal Gear."  
  
"Any chance that your sources are wrong?" Snake knew what answer to expect, yet asked anyway.  
  
"Hardly," Otacon replied. His voice had a certain tone in it, not one of arrogance, but one of confidence, perhaps over-confidence.  
  
"Sure about that?" said Snake, dryly.  
  
"Am I ever unsure of anything?" Otacon queried.  
  
Snake said nothing and gave off a low grunt... he didn't need to speak to let Otacon know what his answer to that question was.  
  
Otacon ignored Snake's "comment" and moved on.  
  
"Anyway, I know what you're thinking and I highly doubt it, Snake. My sources are top-notch, as always. Snake, please, find out what they're plan is for RAY, and stop it ASAP."  
  
"Will do." The connection was cut after those last words.  
  
He rose up from his hiding place, behind the generator, and continued down the dark corridor of the room. Large generators and other various machines filled the room; hiding would definitely not serve as a problem in this particular part of the base.  
  
Quietly walking down the metal-grated floor was quite a difficult task, but Snake made the uneasy easy. Snake's ears then rang... not with the maddening tone of the codec's ring, but a round of bullets being fired from an automatic machine gun.  
  
The hum of the rounds being fired was low at first... its volume gradually rose as Snake approached a section of the room that was vastly different from the others. There were no generators occupying this section of the room. Instead, large scorch marks surrounded by dead soldiers took their place. Apparently, someone has used them to their advantage to off quite a few commandos.  
  
Snake then saw the entity that may have wiped them out.  
  
Not wanting to be a part of this firefight, no matter how much he enjoyed them, Snake backtracked and hid behind the nearest generator. His gun was jammed into its holster and, in that same second, Snake grasped his binoculars, strung around his neck, and brought them in front of his eyes.  
  
The commando zoomed in on the combat taking place on the opposite end of the room and took in quite a sight.  
  
Through the scope, Snake's eyes viewed a battalion of soldiers in a firefight with a... cyborg ninja, of all things. The ninja was clad in red and silver "armor," which was really a cybernetic exoskeleton, similar to that of which Gray Fox was known. The man (or woman) was weaponless, his only visible means of attack being his hands and feet. These "weapons" were, in reality, quite effective if one knew how to rightly use them.  
  
Snake then changed the focus from the soldiers fighting him or her. He zoomed in on one soldier, viciously letting loose a round of hot lead from his M4 at the ninja. The Philanthropy commando immediately recognized the attire of these soldiers at that point, being the military connoisseur that he was.  
  
"Marines?" Snake asked no one in particular.  
  
These fighting men were indeed members of the US Marines. Snake could easily tell so from their gear; they were all clad in "Marine Green," along with a helmet on the top of their heads.  
  
The soldier easily noticed who was winning the fight, and it wasn't the Marines. The weaponless mystery ninja had an obvious edge in this battle, showing that traditional weapons are not necessary to be successful in war.  
  
The ninja had no guns, no swords, just his bare hands and feet; lethal weapons for some.  
  
The soldier closest to the ninja fired his gun, and the ninja instantly reacted. He jumped sideways into the air in order to avoid the bullets, and at the top of his flight fired three throwing stars, each hitting a different soldier. They dropped like rocks, not even able to let out their screams of pain before death took over. Blood flowed from the wounds where the throwing stars connected; one hit a Marine in the throat, and the others connected to the Marines' chest. Two Marines were left, one on each side of the ninja. They both rushed at him, and the ninja took action. He did a standing roundhouse kick, connecting with one of the Marines' jaws, knocking him on the ground instantly. He immediately turned toward the other guard, who swung at him with his gun. The ninja ducked and grabbed the Marine by the neck. He put his right foot on his chest, rolled backwards and launched the Marine in the air, at least five feet. As the Marine went up, his gun was taken by the ninja, who, after rolling backwards, got on one knee and pointed the gun up at the Marine and fired. The spray of fire kept the Marine up in the air for as long as the ninja held the trigger, blood dripping to the floor. The ninja let go of the trigger, and stood up, walking away, not looking back. Behind him, the Marine fell to the ground with a splash, caused by the huge pool of blood underneath him.  
  
Snake suddenly jumped out of his hiding place, when he thought the ninja would be least expecting.  
  
"FREEZE!" Snake yelled.  
  
The ninja did not move. Instead, he just stared at his foe. The ninja's suit was silver and orange with a silver helmet.  
  
"Hmm, a new opponent. This could be... interesting," commented the ninja.  
  
"This'll be a lot more than 'interesting' if things go my way," said Snake.  
  
"Perhaps another time, Snake." With that, he jumped in the air with blinding speed, disappearing from Snake's sight.  
  
Snake then heard footsteps and pointed his handgun in the direction of the sound. He saw a group of the Russian soldiers coming toward him, the same ones that he had encountered outside. Their AKs-74us were ready, aimed in Snake's direction.  
  
"Guess I got some company," said Snake. As the guards drew closer, he decided to take cover behind a nearby generator. There he spotted a silver- bluish light machine gun, perhaps dropped by a careless Marine. Or a dead one. Snake picked it up, examining it. It was covered in blood, dark crimson blotches staining the steel. Snake seemed not to notice, or care about the blood being there.  
  
"Colt 633," commented Snake. He knew about these guns. They were light machine guns mostly used by Marines, the US DEA (United States Drug Enforcement Agency) and several US police agencies. It had a fair range of about two hundred meters, and its rate of fire was superb at nine hundred rounds per minute. He found ammo next to where the gun was lying, and loaded up the gun. He then cocked and readied his newfound weapon.  
  
"Let's see what she can do," said Snake in a low voice, to himself. He then jumped out and greeted the oncoming soldiers with a volley of bullets from his 633, several of whom fell dead in pools of their own blood. A grenade then came his way. He rolled to the side as the grenade exploded where he was just seconds ago. He jumped out on the opposite side that he had previously, and dropped several more guards. Snake then threw a grenade, which was kicked back by a guard. Snake had no time to react, and the grenade exploded right in front of him, knocking him off his feet. Snake was hurt, but he managed to get up, his adrenaline pumping at the max. He stood, bloody and bruised, and aimed his gun through the spaces between the shelves on the weapons racks and fired off small bursts of gunfire, ducking back to catch his breath after every volley. The sentries occasionally hit Snake with their own gunfire, but every time Snake was hit, it just drove him even more. Snake, with hatred in his eyes, aimed the gun at the last remaining enemies and pulled the trigger until it made a clicking sound, indicating it was out of ammo.  
  
When the smoke cleared, Snake stood, battered and wounded, over the bodies of the Russian guards and the Marines, blood splattered on the soldiers, their guns, the walls, the floor and Snake. He was a wounded animal, and nothing is more dangerous than a wounded animal. These guards had just learned that the hard way. This reminded Snake of a Chinese proverb he knew. He recited it in his head as best as he could remember as he walked toward the end of the room.  
  
If you hit a Snake and don't kill it, you'll be sorry later on. Snake took another look at the guards that he had killed. Hmm. I think they're more than sorry. Snake searched all of the bodies for anything useful, finding mostly ammo and a couple grenades. He then heard a loud noise that slightly startled him. Snake turned toward the noise, and saw a desk with a computer and an overturned glass with a clear liquid spilling out of it. Underneath the desk was a frightened civilian. Snake showed no sympathy, and pointed his Beretta at his head.  
  
"You! On your feet! Now!" yelled Snake. Snake was a man never afraid to use force to complete a mission.  
  
"D-don't shoot! " he yelled as he stood and put his hands above his head.  
  
"I need information. If you're smart, you'll tell me what I need to know. Who do you work for?"  
  
"The... the La-li-lu-le-lo."  
  
At the sound of the Patriot's name, Snake brought the gun's barrel closer to the civilian, his finger closer to the trigger.  
  
"Ahhh!" The civilian screamed and fell back against the desk.  
  
Snake then relaxed, backing away from his victim, but keeping his pistol trained on him.  
  
"What are they planning here?" Snake asked in a not so harsh but still forceful voice.  
  
"They're planning something big, and-"  
  
"What are they planning?!"  
  
"They're using-" His voice was suddenly cut off by a loud gunshot, echoing across the room. The civilian let out a deafening scream as blood spurted from his head. Snake immediately turned to where the gunshot came from. He observed a man with long, white hair, cowboy boots, and an old fashioned Colt Model Revolver, smoke coming from the barrel. Snake stared at him with cold hatred and animosity.  
  
"Ocelot," said Snake in a low voice.  
  
"Now, now Snake. The Patriots wouldn't want classified information falling into the wrong hands, would they?" asked Ocelot as he spun his Revolver around his finger and holstered it. He walked toward Snake, his spurs clanking against the floor every time he took a step.  
  
"Solid Snake. This reminds me of Shadow Moses so. Are you felling that... nostalgia, Snake? Déjà vu, Snake. Except that this time, you won't be walking out alive.  
  
"No, I shouldn't say that. You do have another alternative. Snake, join us, join the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo, and we, as one, will be an unstoppable force. Who knows what we'll be able to accomplish?"  
  
This triggered a flashback into Snake's head.  
  
The Tanker. Ocelot turning on his allies, the Gurlukovich soldiers and their leader, Sergei Gurlukovich. Shooting them all, one by one. Each bullet had a message on it: a message of mistrust.  
  
"Forget about it. You may make on hell of a bad enemy Ocelot, but you're an even worse ally. I've seen what you do to your 'partners'."  
  
"Snake... I pity you. For the only way you will leave this place alive is if you join us. But you choose not to. I wish you luck in living through this battle... for you will need it."  
  
However, before the battle started, Ocelot did something that surprised Snake. He took of the pack that disallowed him to be hit by gunfire or grenades and tossed it in the air between the two combatants. Keeping his eyes on Snake, he took out his revolver with his right hand, spun it on his finger twice and fired three rounds into the device, his focus still on Snake. All three bullets went through the pack and came out on the other side. It landed between Ocelot and Snake, a smoking heap of twisted metal, completely disfigured and dented in.  
  
"Last chance, Snake. Make a decision," Ocelot told Snake.  
  
"Here's your final answer," said Snake as he fired a warning shot at Ocelot, missing on purpose. The bullet had a message, a clear and simple one: No.  
  
"Do as you will, Snake. For now, you have no purpose now but to die here."  
  
"I'll die after I kill you!" screamed Snake.  
  
Ocelot pulled the trigger of his revolver seven times, and they all headed in Snake's direction, literally faster than the speed of sound. 


	4. Chapter 4: Briefing

Chapter 4- Briefing  
  
Jack awoke slowly, the sharp pain still buzzing around in the base of his skull. It felt like it had been days since the horrible occurrence, but, in reality, it had only been a few hours. As Jack's vision went from hazy to clear, he saw the damage his house had taken. Blood smeared on the walls, windowpanes broken, and furniture overturned, his house was a disaster area.  
  
Jack stood up, using literally every ounce of strength he had. Still dazed, he walked like a drunk over to his torn and blood stained sofa and sat down. Luckily, his nanomachines had stopped his bleeding. Without them, he may have bled to death, but he was still only semi-conscious. A single tear ran down his eye as he reflected on what had just happened. His wife, his only true love in the world, was kidnapped. She was gone, taken to do who knew what, and it was all his fault. But that wouldn't stop him. He'd get her back, no matter what it took. He then heard his cell phone ringing, and took it out of his pocket. He read the caller ID label:  
  
Unknown caller.  
  
He reluctantly answered the call.  
  
"H-hello?"  
  
"Raiden, listen carefully," said a mysterious, deep voice. "We have your wife and your daughter." Jack stopped breathing. He just remembered. Rose was nine months pregnant, about to give birth. Apparently, she did, to a baby girl, who was now being held hostage as well.  
  
"Raiden, listen carefully," said a mysterious voice. "We have your wife and your daughter." Jack stopped breathing. He just remembered. Rose was nine months pregnant, about to give birth. Apparently, she did, to a baby girl, who was now being held hostage as well.  
  
"If you ever wish to see them again," continued the voice, "then you must cooperate and do as we say. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," replied Jack.  
  
"Report here, behind the abandoned warehouse on 76th and Washington Streets, at 0300 hours, and be ready for war."  
  
Jack then took the phone away from his ear and threw it against the wall out of sheer anger. But he had no choice. He had to do it. For Rose and his daughter. He looked at his clock. 2:00 AM, or 0200 hours. He didn't have a lot of time. He went up to his closet, ignoring the utter disorder of his room, everything either broken, turned over, or ransacked in some way. He grabbed his Skull Suit, blue in color, and put it on underneath his street clothes, then put on a denim jacket over his white T-shirt, and put his blue jeans back on, trying to look as civilian as possible. He called a cab company and told them to bring a cab to his house ASAP. He left the house with his SOCOM in his pocket, and waited for the cab. After about twenty minutes, the cab arrived. He jumped in before telling the driver where he wanted to go.  
  
"76th and Washington! Now! Step on it!" When Jack arrived, he dropped thirty dollars in the front seat and leapt out of the taxi. He went around the abandoned warehouse, the windows boarded up, graffiti on the walls, making it look as if no one had been there for decades, which may as well have been true. When he reached the back of the warehouse, he made out a dark figure, a vaguely visible silhouette in the distance. The lack of light made it hard for Raiden to see exactly where he was, but he walked, slowly, toward the figure.  
  
"Jack. How nice of you show up. Follow me." Jack did as he was told, following the man to a street past the warehouse, about a five minute walk. Jack then noticed a limousine with a chauffeur holding the door open.  
  
"After you, Jack," said the agent. Jack got in, as did the agent. Raiden was left alone in the back seat, the agent and the chauffer in the front. After about twenty minutes, they arrived at their destination. The chauffer and the agent got out of the car, and the door was opened for Raiden. He stepped out slowly, and was greeted by two agents, the ones in black suits, both holding M16s in Raiden's direction. Raiden walked in the direction the agents with the M16s forced him to, jabbing their rifles into his back. He looked up and saw a large glass building, easily the size of the Empire State Building. He walked in through the front door, and looked up and down the hall. He saw nothing but empty space, and the floor was eerily quiet, but Jack didn't notice. The sound of Rose's screaming and gunfire was still ringing in his head. He continued down the hall until he came to a large metal door, which was opened by one of the agents, while the other forced him in, slammed and locked the door. All the walls were made of metal inside the tiny room, preventing any kind of escape. About a minute later, three people entered the room, the agent that had contacted Raiden, (a man with very short black hair) a woman with medium length red-brown hair, and an agent with an M16 in his hands. Raiden broke the silence of the room.  
  
"What have you done with Rose?"  
  
"Don't worry, you'll see her again very soon; as soon as your mission is completed," said the agent.  
  
"And what mission is that?"  
  
"Tell him," said the agent that Raiden was familiar with. The woman then spoke for the first time.  
  
"On March 30th, George Sears, AKA Solidus Snake suffered severe injuries after falling from the roof of Federal Hall following the Big Shell cleanup facility incident. A police escort rushed him to a local hospital. However, his police escort was killed by an armed group."  
  
"Who were the gunmen?"  
  
"The private army of a group of assassins known as Trinity," the woman continued. "They are former members of a United States Special Operations Unit that was assigned only to missions that required the unique skills that they possessed. They now, for reasons unknown, wish to rid the world of any type of government, which would place the world in a war to determine who is the strongest, most dominant force. They have captured Solidus Snake, and several other unknown hostages, and are torturing them for any information about the Patriots that he has, hoping to get rid of them for good."  
  
"So what do you want me to do about it?" asked Raiden, sarcastically.  
  
"Your mission is to infiltrate the base that they are keeping the hostages at and assassinate them."  
  
"All of them?" asked Jack.  
  
"Every hostage who has even the least bit of information on the Patriots, and the high class members of Trinity. Those are your orders; do you understand?"  
  
"How am I getting there?" Jack said, ignoring the question.  
  
"A sea plane will take you in to Manhattan, which is where they are suspected to be. You will need to swim to shore, however, and continue from there. Follow me. We'll go get your gear."  
  
Jack did as he was told, and they all left the room. They went down the barren hallways and came to another metal door. They walked in, and there was a large table with many weapons laid out on it. The Patriot agent picked up an assault rifle and handed it to Raiden.  
  
"This is the 5.56mm Colt M4A1 Carbine Assault Rifle. There are two hundred extra rounds, and the gun is equipped with a flash and sound suppressor and a scope. It has three rates of fire are safe, single shot, and fully automatic." He moved on to the rest of the equipment. "You will have several types of grenades. Fragmentation grenades, which will kill anyone in the explosion range, chaff grenades that can be used to temporarily shut off anything electronic, and gas grenades to incapacitate groups of enemies. You will have three of each, but you may find more at the base." He then picked up what appeared to be nothing more than a small screen of some sort. "This is a tracking device; it goes on your wrist. Right now, it's set to find the base that you are to infiltrate, but, with the right four-number code, it can be set to find anything, and whatever it is will show up as a large red blip on the grid. And lastly, this is your suit. It's a prototype wetsuit, able to be worn in and out of water. It adapts to temperature change, and it doesn't make a sound when you move while wearing it, perfect for stealth. There's also a cargo vest for your equipment, for you to keep your equipment and such. Your oxygen mask is also there; you'll need it when you swim to shore. Put them on."  
  
Everyone left the room, except Raiden, and he proceeded to place the gear on. It was the full body wetsuit, which had a black and gray camouflage pattern, the cargo vest, combat boots, gloves, and the oxygen mask, all black. He strapped the M4 to his back, and also his sword, which was with his Skull Suit that he had worn there. He put the grenades in the pouches in his vest, and the spare ammunition in the leg pouches of his suit. He put the tracker on his wrist and walked out of the room with his oxygen mask in his hand. He found that they were all waiting outside, and as soon as Raiden came out, they went down the hall, and he followed. They got onto an elevator and went up to the heliport, and Raiden, the redheaded woman and the agent got into the seaplane. They took off towards the Hudson River, war-bound... 


	5. Chapter 5: Rematch of Shadow Moses

Chapter 5- Shadow Moses Rematch  
  
Snake knew that he had to act quickly. He immediately put his gun away in the holster on his hip and dove head first to his right. He completed a forward roll and took his gun back out, barrel pointed at Ocelot's head. Keeping the gun trained on his enemy, he looked at the spot from where he had come. Several bullets whizzed by the empty space where his head would have been. The slugs would have gone through his skull like a hot knife through melted butter had he not moved away in time.  
  
"You're a hell of a shot Ocelot. Looks like this'll be one hell of a fight," commented Snake.  
  
Ocelot, however, said nothing. He only smiled like the sadist that he was as he spun his revolver on his red-gloved right index finger.  
  
Ocelot then opened the chamber on his revolver; he left it open and letting his right hand, with the gun in it, drop. He opened the left side of his coat and removed a pack of six golden bullets and placed each of them in each of the six chambers.  
  
Snake kept his gun focused on Ocelot, but didn't shoot. It was against his code of honor; you might as well shoot someone in the back. It was a cowardly move that someone like Solid Snake would not commit. Snake was surprised at himself for not shooting, however; Revolver Ocelot was a man that had caused Snake and his allies more psychological and physical pain than any humans should ever undergo in any number of lifetimes.  
  
Ocelot then spoke after reloading, although he left the barrel open. He looked at Snake; his eyes concentrated on him like a hawk eyeing its prey.  
  
"You see, Snake, there are six chambers in this revolver. Each one holds one .45 caliber bullet, and each bullet holds something else. Do you know what it is that they hold, Snake?"  
  
Snake didn't respond, though Ocelot didn't expect him to. Snake's itchy trigger finger was all that was on the Philanthropy soldier's mind; he barely heard Ocelot's words.  
  
"Each one of these bullets holds your fate, Snake. So, I say this in lieu of any further conversation between us; make your decisions carefully, Snake... DRAW!"  
  
Ocelot let loose one shot from his revolver towards Snake's skull, something he didn't usually do. But his actions made perfect sense, as Snake took action.  
  
Snake's pistol came down, placed hard in the holster as he dove to his left to avoid the gunfire. He was expecting a bombardment of bullets, something he knew Ocelot loved to do, and was most dangerous when doing. Snake managed to avoid the single slug, but at the same time managed to make himself a vulnerable target for the sure shot of Revolver Ocelot. He hadn't merely ducked to evade the gunfire, for he was indeed expecting several bullets at one time.  
  
Snake knew that he had been outsmarted, and he knew that he was going to pay for it. He braced himself for whatever Ocelot had up his sleeve. Whatever it was, Snake was sure that it would hurt.  
  
The five bullets remaining in the barrel were fired from Ocelot's prized weapon. He used a technique called "fanning", pushing the hammer on the rear of the gun back after each shot. This allowed him to get off more shots at a time that was ever intended for the revolver.  
  
Each bullet that Ocelot delivered connected with Snake's chest area, tearing apart his bulletproof vest, destroying it into uselessness.  
  
A searing pain entered Snake's abdomen, but fortunately for him, no blood was drawn on the attack. However, his vest was now an ineffective, torn apart piece of . He thought nothing more of it, shook off the pain from Ocelot's assault and looked up. To Snake's surprise, Ocelot was nowhere to be found.  
  
Where in the hell could he have gone that fast? thought Snake. He's 60!  
  
He looked around carefully, but sure enough, Ocelot wasn't there. He quickly pulled the zipper of the vest down and removed it. Snake threw the useless piece of refuse behind him.  
  
Taking out his pistol and gripping it in both hands, Snake stood up and readied himself to fight. He walked opposite of the dead end on the other side of the hall, head always facing in front of him, but his eyes shifting in search of Ocelot. He came to a corner and hugged the wall, peeking around the corner as he tried to get the jump on his adversary. Not able to go to Ocelot, Snake decided to make Ocelot come to him.  
  
"Hiding won't help you, Ocelot! Come out here and fight me like a man!" yelled Snake, still peeking around the corner, to his adversary.  
  
Then, only a mere split second after the last word had escaped Snake's mouth, several bullets came in his direction. Snake ducked and brought his head back around the bend, the bullets sheer milliseconds away from blowing Snake's brain tissue out of his head.  
  
"Damn!" yelled Snake, his heart beating so hard that Snake swore he could hear it over Ocelot's continuous gunfire. Ocelot was forced to reload after the sixth shot at the well-covered Snake, and the commando took advantage. Snake waited until Ocelot finished reloading, when he would come out of hiding most likely, to take action. He then brought his pistol to bear over his head and around the wall, but did not look at his target. He let loose a whole round from his Beretta, using a technique that he rarely used called "blindfire".  
  
Snake knew that most, if all, the rounds would miss their target, but it would also force Ocelot to go on the defensive, running away from Snake's gunfire. Snake knew that his plan had worked from the monotonous clank, clank, clank of Ocelot's spurs every time the connected with the slick steel floor.  
  
Snake quickly jumped out from cover and sprinted full speed toward sufficient protection. He spotted a steel computer stand that would be able to give him ample, if only temporary, refuge. Every step that Snake took towards the stand made it seem so much farther away. Snake then looked to his left and saw a very angered Ocelot, with his revolver trained on him, aim steady. Time seemed to slow down as he stared down the barrel of the gun and saw the muzzle flash as several bullets left their chambers.  
  
Snake stopped for a split second, for a reason he could not put think of, and continued his dash towards cover. Each bullet came closer and closer to Snake's head as he ran from the steel onslaught, grazing his messy, brown hair.  
  
Snake then saw the computer stand that he had spotted earlier and almost outran it trying to avoid death's lethal grasp that was set firmly on each slug. He reversed his course, his boots losing their traction and, in turn, causing Snake to lose his footing. He almost fell, but he was able to retain some a good amount of his balance, his right leg extending and his left bending as he turned around. He quickly jammed his gun into the holster and used his right palm to break the would-be fall. He then stood, balance regained, and looked up. He saw two bullets heading towards him, wanting to splatter Snake's brains on the wall. Snake dropped out of sight, nothing fancy necessary; he simply fell behind the stand, on his side, and one of the bullets missed their target completely, crashing through the computer's glass monitor... but the other one connected. It nicked Snake's right cheek, creating an ugly gash, blood dripping onto the floor from the cut.  
  
Snake willed himself to ignore the pain and remembered that that was Ocelot's sixth shot since last reloading. He jumped out and emptied what remained of his clip, a mere three shots at his adversary, who was in the process of reloading. Two of Snake's rounds connected with Ocelot's left shoulder, the first bullet tearing through the trenchcoat, and the second tearing through Ocelot's skin, drawing blood.  
  
Ocelot let out an intense scream as he put his gun away for the first time since meeting Snake here and dropped to one knee and delivered self first- aid. He injected his shoulder with a painkiller, numbing it, lessening the pain of the wound. He did not, however, make any attempt to stop the blood loss he was experiencing. It would clot eventually, leaving a nasty scar, however.  
  
Meanwhile, Snake had looked for and found sufficient cover behind the side of a row of lockers propped up against the wall. Crouched, back against the cold steel, Snake removed the empty magazine, tossing it away, nothing more than an ineffective, useless item. He took out a fresh clip from a holster strapped onto his suit and loaded it into his handgun.  
  
Snake, now newly loaded and ready, stepped out of his hiding spot and looked for the enemy, gun trained straight ahead. He walked, careful not to make any noise on the steel floor, always so diligent. He brought his boot down slowly every time he took a step; nothing but silence surrounded him.  
  
Suddenly, Snake heard that familiar clank, clank, clank of Ocelot's spurs against the floor, faster than normal, meaning that Ocelot was running. Snake did not see Ocelot, however, only the three bullets headed for his forehead. He immediately dropped on his stomach to the floor. Two of the bullets, however, connected with Snake's right arm before he fell to the ground. Snake let out an agonized scream as he placed his left hand over the gash created by the two rounds to stop the intense blood flow he was experiencing. He then, somehow, mustered the strength to pull a bandage from a casing on his suit, and place it in his left hand, then immediately placing it above the wound. He made sure that it was securely in place before removing his hand. He eyed the bandage; a small pool of red flowed underneath it, but it was the best he could do for now. It would slow down the bleeding, if not stop it soon.  
  
By this time, Ocelot had had ample opportunity to get away from Snake, to find a hiding spot. Snake took this into consideration, and took his time as he got up to his feet and went towards where he had last seen Ocelot. He knew that an ambush was plenty possible; he just hoped that his soldier's sixth sense would save him from anything like that.  
  
Snake then stopped at one spot, an area with a lot of open space, looked down, and saw several blood blotches staining the floor. He knew that this was Ocelot's blood, as he had not been to this spot. Snake followed the path of blood until it suddenly stopped; there was what appeared to be a control room right next to the last blood mark on the floor. It had a door and a glass window right next to the door.  
  
Snake knew that something had to be up. However, he also knew that Ocelot was extremely cunning. In thinking that he was walking into a trap, Snake could very well try to avoid that trap and fall into another one. He decided not to go farther than where the blood trail stopped until he was sure that he knew what Ocelot was doing.  
  
Snake looked all around him, for any place in which Ocelot could be hiding. He saw several computer stands, each of which were a good distance from the wall behind them, wonderful hiding spots for someone as sneaky as Ocelot. But no one was sneakier than Snake. He knew how to draw people out of hiding, and he knew how to do it quite well.  
  
There were five computer stands, five places for Ocelot to hide. If Ocelot were hiding in any of those five places, he wouldn't be for long. Snake took out several grenades, activated each one, pulling the pin, and sent them rolling underneath the middle computer stand. They all went off at approximately the same time, the shrapnel exploding into the air, sending the computer and its stand several inches into the air. It was lit ablaze, basically destroyed. The glass monitor was shattered into countless pieces, the steel stand was dented, pieces missing after the blast, and several things on the stand, including the computer itself, fell off, sliding to the floor, creating an infinite amount of noise.  
  
The explosion from the grenades created a chain reaction, and the other computer platforms suffered the same fate. Fires were started; glass fell to the floor, as well as steel as the computer stands were decimated. That entire side of the room, once a tranquil computer area, was now a raging, scorching, violent, intense inferno, nowhere near tranquil, and not on the way any time soon.  
  
Still, it made quite a scene. The extreme light from the fire played on Snake's entire body, yellow-orange flickering on the white of Snake's sneaking suit. If one saw this, they may have believed that it was beautiful and intimidating at that same time. Snake stood there, silent, only the crackling of the fire heard in the room.  
  
He figured that ocelot would give himself up, sooner or later.  
  
However, Ocelot did not appear from behind any of those potential hiding places. He was either dead, or had outsmarted Snake. And Snake knew that it would take a hell of a lot to kill Ocelot, as it always had. Snake knew that his enemy was still around, somewhere, alive, lurking, stalking Snake, planning his next move.  
  
"OCELOT!" Snake yelled to no one in particular. He then saw something move to his right. He turned and saw a coatless Ocelot, only his long-sleeved jungle camo jacket on, with the matching army pants.  
  
Snake let ten rounds fly into Ocelot's chest. They all connected, and Ocelot showed obvious pain, but no blood was drawn. Snake realized immediately... just like at Shadow Moses, Ocelot was prepared. He was wearing body armor, which effectively cut off the gunshots, but still caused him pain. He cried out, but the fled from the commando, through the space between the control room to Snake's right and the inferno on the other side of the room. Snake let off six more shots at his foe, but none of them connected, so Snake opted to chase after the cowboy.  
  
What Snake had forgotten, however, was the trap that he had suspected Ocelot of setting up. Snake had been right; Ocelot had indeed set up a trap... and Snake walked right into it. Taking one more step, past the last bloodstain on the floor, Snake walked right onto three tightly packed claymore landmines. They detonated at the same time, knocking Snake wildly off of his feet, and through the glass of the control room to his left! As soon as it happened, he could hear Ocelot's sinister laughter, coming from far away.  
  
Snake's entire body was sent through the glass, back first, shattering it instantly. Snake landed with a hard, sickening thud on his spine, not quite breaking it, but ever so close. He was bleeding just about everywhere, his sneaking suit torn in many places, and most likely a couple broken bones. Snake landed on the broken glass that his body had caused, adding injury to... injury.  
  
Snake attempted to get up on his feet, but his right leg collapsed, giving out underneath the weight of his body. It was far too hurt for Snake to have any chance of walking soon, and the blood loss that Snake was suffering was intense. He had no bandages, except for the one he had put on his arm, and he couldn't remove that one. He had to improvise, to fins something in place of a normal bandage. Then it hit him like an exploding grenade.  
  
He grasped the tail of his esteemed bandana in his left hand and held it over his head. Snake then took out his combat knife and slit the tail near the bandana, separating it from the bandana itself. He now had the tail in his left hand, and the knife in his right, which he promptly put away. He doubled the tail over, making it thicker, but also lessening the length at the same time. However, the tail was very long in itself, going from the bottom of Snake's head to his ankles; and Snake was a good six feet one inch tall.  
  
Snake wrapped the tail around the wound in the middle of his right thigh. He was able to wrap it around a good three times, and then tie it in a knot. He thought, to himself, that he had made a pretty good imitation bandage, though he had to sacrifice a part of himself, the tail of his bandana; the tail that, once someone saw it flapping in the wind, could identify him instantaneously.  
  
But it was definitely worth it. The bleeding had stopped, and the pain was gradually, slowly but surely the pain was lessening.  
  
Snake knew, however, that it would be a good couple minutes before he could walk again. He propped his back against the wall in the room. He placed the palm of his right hand against his forehead, and brought it back in front of his eyes. It came back blood stained, easily visible against the white of Snake's glove.  
  
That's when he caught a peek underneath the control desk. Could it be?  
  
Snake half crawled-half walked to the area underneath the desk. He had indeed seen what he thought. A pack of standard military issue... bandages.  
  
Oh, great... NOW I find 'em, thought Snake. Where were these when he had to use his goddamn bandana tail as a mock bandage? These were the moments Snake hated the most.  
  
Nevertheless, he thought nothing more of it, opened the pack, and took all of them out and placed as many as he could in one of the pouches attached to his suit... save two, that he would use on his forehead wound.  
  
He took the bandana off of his forehead and looked on the inside of it. It was covered in a thin pool of crimson, still flowing, still growing, slowly. He placed his bandana on the floor and placed the bandages over his forehead. Once he did that, he placed his left palm against his forehead, around the bandages; it came back clean... he was done.  
  
Snake placed his tailless bandana back over his forehead, covering the bandages. He threw the bandage container haphazardly underneath the desk and got up on his feet. Suddenly, however, he stopped. He knew that Ocelot was probably waiting for him somewhere outside of the control room. If he correctly remembered where he had run to after Snake had shot him, it was most likely opposite of the window that used to have glass in it, on the other side of that wall. Snake knew that if he went out there, he was a dead man, with his limited running ability.  
  
He then decided to break down the wall, but he had no good melee weapons to do so; his pistol would never do. He then remembered that he was carrying four lethal weapons... his hands and feet. He put his gun away and got into a fighting position. He breathed, and put all of his power behind the barrage of punches he gave the wall...  
  
Thud... Thud... Thud...  
  
Snake took his time, making sure that each punch weakened the wall, which it did. Several cracks appeared in the wall, and Snake could hear the cracking as the plaster fell to the floor. The wall panel was close to falling off, but Snake wanted to rush the process.  
  
He crouched, jumped, and put every ounce of strength behind a roundhouse kick that sent the top section of the wall flying straight out; it didn't fall off and simply drop to the floor right in front of it. It went straight, staying in the air for a good two and a half seconds. That is until...  
  
BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!  
  
Ocelot had let out six shot from his revolver, all of which went through the block of wall flying through the air. Once the last bullets went through, the piece of wall immediately descended, dropping to the steel floor with a 'crack!' and breaking into several pieces.  
  
Snake heard and saw the attack coming, and ducked as fast as he could, back against what was left of the wall. The bullets whizzed by the top of his head; Snake could literally watch them go through the glassless window and hit the wall on the other side. Snake jumped up to his feet and pointed his pistol out of the makeshift window, knowing that Ocelot was reloading, and if he wasn't, there was no way he could mount any type of offense.  
  
He let out the rest of his clip, a good fifteen shots at his foe, all of which connected. Ocelot fell the ground; Snake could hear the 'clank!' of the revolver as it fell from Ocelot's grasp onto the floor as well.  
  
Snake kept his gun trained outside of the room during the entire period in which Ocelot struggled to get back on his feet. Suddenly, Snake saw smoke rising from where Ocelot had fallen. It was rising fast; Snake had no time to investigate it. The smoke was coming into the room through the open space that used to be a wall, and Snake had no choice but to try to avoid it. He went to the opposite end of the room and crouched against the wall right beneath the window.  
  
Then, abruptly, six revolver bullets entered through the smoke, literally creating small seams in the smoke where they passed through. They missed Snake by a mile, but they may not have been aimed at him. They all hit something on the control panel, on the table under which Snake had found the bandages.  
  
Snake was then able to see a blinking red light through the smoke near the area where the slugs hit. An alarm was blaring at the same time, ringing in Snake's ear. He knew that something bad was about to happen, most likely involving someone in a certain control room getting hurt very badly.  
  
He stood up, studied his options, and put away his Beretta. He leapt out of the glassless window head first, a forward dive.  
  
Indeed, he was right. The entire center of the room exploded... and Snake was only halfway out of the window... 


	6. Chapter 6: Infiltration

Chapter 6- Infiltration  
  
The seaplane flew over the Hudson River for about twenty minutes. Raiden used this time to examine his gear, first unsheathing his blade and examining it, swinging it in front of him a few times, a test drill that he always did with a blade. He swung vertically, horizontally, left to right, right to left, and diagonally. He practiced his lunge, and he practiced striking with the blunt side of the blade. He put the blade up in front of his face, practicing his guard.  
  
He put the blade away and took out his M4. He cocked it, and put the safety lock on, so that even if he accidentally pulled the trigger, it would not fire. He looked through the scope, and tried to hold it as steady as he could. He put it back, and decided to take a good look his tracker. On the screen was a grid with green lines that showed the coordinates of his current location. There was a green dot that was constantly moving east. He could only assume that it was him. There was nothing on the screen indicating the location of the base, but they had just taken off. On the bottom of the tracker was a horizontal keypad with the numbers one to ten.  
  
"Raiden, listen carefully," said the male agent as the woman piloted the seaplane. We will drop you off in the Hudson River, about thirty meters from shore. We cannot go any farther than that without risking sight. You will have to swim the rest of the way to the island. Once you get there, contact us immediately and report what you see. The frequency is 144.50. Use the tracker on your wrist to locate the base and get in at any cost. Here we are, Raiden." The seaplane landed on the water, softly, not creating a single ripple. Raiden went to the door of the seaplane after putting his oxygen mask on. "Jump on my count, Raiden. Three... two... one... go!" Raiden dove gracefully into the water, barely creating a ripple in the water. He went under the water, swimming nimbly through the water. He didn't need to come up for air very often, as the oxygen mask provided extra air that he needed. As he got closer to the shore, he slowed down, not swimming anymore, in a sense, but just allowing the current to carry him to the shore so that the enemy wouldn't hear him. He had to be careful, however, to maintain control of his path somewhat so that the current would not take him where he didn't want to go.  
  
He poked his head over the water to get a look at the island. He saw jeeps riding by, some carrying supplies, others carrying and deploying soldiers. He figured that he might be able to hitch a ride on one of the jeeps to get to the base. That would save him valuable time and energy.  
  
He climbed up on the shore, his all black and gray attire helping him blend in with the environment. It was a barren place; probably the outskirts of Manhattan, dirt and rocks covering the entire area, Jack's boots making a crunching sound every time he took a step.  
  
Jack crouched down, surveying the area. He knew he would never catch any of the moving jeeps without getting caught, so he had to make them stop somehow so he could get on, but without being detected. He then figured out a way that he could do just that. He waited for a jeep to pass by him, and readied a chaff grenade. Jack was planning to throw the grenade near one of the jeeps, and then sneak in one after it stopped. He threw the grenade in the path of the jeep, and it detonated on impact. The jeep suffered no damage, but it stopped suddenly, unable to function, the driver obviously surprised, just as he had hoped.  
  
Raiden slowly moved toward the jeep, hoping that the driver would not take off before he got there. It wasn't too far away, and Jack was halfway there when the driver stepped out of the jeep and looked around. He used the gun on his flashlight to get a better look and spotted Raiden.  
  
"Intruder!" he yelled. Fortunately for Raiden, no one else heard him. He immediately took out his M4 and lined up a shot through the scope. The guard fired a few bullets at Raiden, before grabbing his radio off of his hip. Raiden was able to line up a good shot, first shooting the radio, sparks coming from it, blood pouring out of the guard's hand, which Jack had apparently hit as well. He then used the time he had as the guard was tending to his wound to line up a headshot, and pull the trigger, blood pouring from underneath the balaclava. He landed, dead, in front of the jeep, and Raiden rushed over, trying not to make too much noise. He then took off the soldier's balaclava, wiping off the blood on the ground, taking off his oxygen mask, and placing the balaclava on his own head. He then took the soldier's BDU (Battle Dress Uniform) and slipped it on over his wet suit, put his dog tags on his neck, and holstered the gun on his front, as all the soldiers did. He dragged the soldier's body over to the river and dumped it in, disposing of his handiwork. He went back to the jeep and got in the driver's seat. Luckily, he was carrying supplies, and not deploying other soldiers. He drove up to the base, and got out, going to the back of the jeep. He opened the door in the back and saw several crates of supplies on carts. He grabbed the handles of the cart and wheeled it out of the jeep and into the base, through the sliding doors. He then went back out and got another cart of supplies and wheeled it in. He was nervous, sweating under the balaclava, but the guards paid no attention to him. He wheeled the last cart in, and stayed inside. He hid in a dark corridor and heard his codec ring. 


	7. Chapter 7: Hostage

Chapter 7- Hostage  
  
The entire center of the room exploded, taking the computers with them, engulfing Ocelot in a mass of smoke and fire. His screams echoed throughout the room, a sound Snake knew he would never forget.  
  
Snake completed his dive through the window, making it through with no life- threatening damage. However, the explosion careened his dive, and he landed hard on his already injured right leg.  
  
Snake let out a cry of pain as he struggled to get up, cuts all over his body from the preceding battle as well as from the sharp pieces of metal. He was also burned from the explosion, pieces of his suit torn off.  
  
He then heard the worst possible words he could, over a loudspeaker.  
  
"Attention! We have an intruder on the first floor generator room in Building One! I repeat, an intruder on the first floor, Building One! All B1 attack team personnel report there and eliminate the target at once!"  
  
Snake knew that he had to get up, or he'd have a very serious situation on his hands... as if he didn't already. He willed himself to get up, trying to muster enough strength to do so. He managed to get to one knee.  
  
Not a bad start, Snake thought.  
  
He got up and headed for the door, limping because of his injured right leg, which he had landed on when the explosion had forced him to land chaotically after diving through the window. He went out through a hole in the wall that the explosion had created, into the dark, snowy night. He then heard footsteps and the too-familiar sound of automatic gunfire, indicating that the guards were catching up to him. Snake tried to run faster, but that caused him to tire and, ironically, slow down.  
  
"I'm getting way too old for this ****," grieved Snake. He felt like he could collapse at any second, which he knew could very well happen. He found a large crane and hid behind it, hoping to avoid the enemy and catch a breather at the same time. No such luck, however. A four-man attack team was headed his way, to his right. Snake decided that if he cut around to his left, he would completely avoid the soldiers if he planned it right. It worked, and he was able to sneak by unnoticed.  
  
He looked back at the base. It was heavily guarded now, making it almost impossible to get back in unseen. Snake then spotted a large white van and figured that he could hide behind it until it was safe to go back in. He went to the side of the van facing away from the base and leaned against it. He made sure that he was safely hidden from the sentries and crouched down in the snow. Snake took the time to check his Beretta and his 633, examining the barrel and the clip closely, then reloading and holstering them both.  
  
Suddenly, a sound triggered his reflexes and caused Snake to reach for his sidearm. He pulled it back as he realized that the van's engine was starting. Still, he acted fast. Wherever the van was going, he was going as well. He jumped up, grabbed hold of the side and pulled himself up on top of the van. He laid down on his stomach, trying to figure out where he was going. Snake stayed there for a good three or four minutes until he reached a larger base, which was also much more heavily guarded. He decided to call Otacon and see what the hell was going on.  
  
"Otacon, you got anything on where I'm at right now?"  
  
"How'd you get there?  
  
"I hitched a ride."  
  
"Hold on, Snake. I'm hacking into the system." The sound of fast typing could be heard through the codec. "Damn it! Snake, I can't get in! The security is too strong."  
  
"Same situation here. This place is swarming with sentries."  
  
"I don't like this, Snake. There's something in there that they don't want us to know about or see."  
  
"Or both."  
  
"Look, Snake, I know this much. You need a special key card to get in there. Now, first you need to find a guard that has the card."  
  
"That shouldn't be a problem."  
  
"It gets worse. Only two guards on this entire base have it. So don't go on any killing sprees, okay Snake?"  
  
"Yeah, sure," said Snake with a slight smile on his face.  
  
"Second, once you have the card, you need to find a way to get into that base without causing any alarm and as few casualties as possible. We..."  
  
"...Aren't terrorists. I know, I know. Snake out."  
  
Snake then stood up on top of the truck, which had stopped, and looked around. He got down at the back of the van and saw that it was open. Two soldiers were inside examining the crates and barrels inside the van. Snake then crept up behind them and gave them both a hard punch to the jaw, knocking them unconscious. He checked their pockets for the keycard, but finding nothing.  
  
"Damn!"  
  
Snake then left the van, heard the sound of footsteps, but couldn't tell where they were coming from. Snake looked all around him, pointing his sidearm in every direction, but he saw no one.  
  
"Come on, Dave. You're just old and paranoid," said Snake to himself. "And now you're talking to yourself."  
  
He made sure he closed and locked the van so that no one would find what he left. He looked around and spotted a patrolling guard. Snake studied his route and headed in his direction. He hid behind a crate that he knew he would pass, and waited patiently. The guard continued his patrol, and got closer and closer to the crate. Snake's heartbeat went faster and faster with every step towards the crate that the sentry took. He passed the crate and Snake proceeded to sneak up on him. The guard never saw Snake's large hands reaching for his neck, never heard Snake's footsteps in the snow. He grabbed the soldier's neck with his right hand and covered his masked mouth with his left.  
  
"Don't say anything, and maybe you'll live," threatened Snake. "Now, there's something I need to know. And remember, lying only makes things worse... much worse." Snake put his Beretta at the guard's head as he said this. "I need the keycard to get in that base. Where is it?"  
  
"Only two of us have it-"  
  
"I know that! Where can I find someone who does?!"  
  
"Okay, okay, I'll tell you, just don't shoot me. One of them patrols in the back, he's the only one there."  
  
"Thanks," said Snake. He jerked his wrist to the side, and a sickening crack was heard. The sentry fell limp in Snake's arm, and Snake let him fall in the snow. He then dragged his body to the van and hid him in the back with his other victims. He then heard the footsteps again, but couldn't find out where they came from.  
  
"I don't like this," said Snake, but continued on. He then heard the sound of a gun being cocked. Someone was messing with his head, he knew. But, nevertheless, he headed for the back of the base, where the guard should be. He saw his soon-to-be prey, standing there, stationary.  
  
Perfect, Snake thought. Snake moved toward him, not making a sound, and was ready to grab and interrogate the guard. As his hands reached for his neck however, he was hit in the back of the head by a melee attack from a heavy gun. The guard turned around, startled, his AK ready. He came face to face with the barrel of a large assault rifle, the Belgian Fabrique Nationale Herstal F2000, with a scope and grenade launcher. The trigger was pulled, sanding a single bullet through the sentry's brain, discoloring the snow a deep red. The perpetrator was a man wearing a DARPA exoskeleton, metal plates covering his chest, and partially covering his arms and legs, Kevlar filling in the unoccupied space. He also wore a metal helmet with a plate- glass visor covering his entire face except his mouth. All of his attire was black, helping him blend in with the night environment. He looked down at his victim, thinking deeply.  
  
"No, not here," he said. He grabbed the unconscious Snake, put him over his shoulder and made his way toward the base. 


	8. Chapter 8: Discovery

Chapter 8- Discovery  
  
"Raiden, what's your position?"  
  
"I got in. I disguised myself as the enemy and snuck in one of their supply trucks. There aren't any sentries patrolling where I am now... yet."  
  
"Lose the disguise immediately, Raiden."  
  
"Why?" asked Jack.  
  
"Only the sentries bringing in the cargo have the BDUs that you have on. They're not even supposed to stay in the building."  
  
"Alright," said Jack, and did as he was told, taking off his disguise.  
  
"Now, you must continue your mission, Jack. Assassinate those hostages."  
  
"And if I refuse?"  
  
"Then your wife and child die. Are we clear?" After not getting a response from Raiden, he spoke again. "Make a choice, Jack."  
  
"I'll do it; you'd just better hope I don't make it back there," he said. You could hear the unwillingness and hatred in his voice, something he did purposely. He wanted him to know how much he hated him, how much he hated the Patriots, but how much he loved his family.  
  
This is what I get for having a conscience, thought Raiden.  
  
He was in a storage room, devoid of anyone. He seized the opportunity and went through every locker, crate and barrel, but didn't find much; a couple fragmentation grenades, and a standard military issue MRE (Meal Ready to Eat).  
  
He grabbed the doorknob and opened the door slowly with his right hand, and kept his gun in his left hand, ready for any kind of threat that may wait on the other side. He peered around the door and looked up and down the hallway, only to find that it was empty. He went out into the hall, and closed the door silently behind him. He walked down the corridor, stepping lightly, careful not to make any sounds. The floor was made of very large tiles that were essentially working against him as he tried to walk silently. His gun was pointed on an angle at the ground, but his eyes searched in every direction for anyone or anything that could be considered dangerous. Coming to a left turn and finding nothing and no one so far, Raiden stopped and hugged the wall in order to see what was around the corner. He pointed the gun on a ninety-degree angle towards the ground and turned his head and neck to look down the next hallway. He spotted two guards, one stationary, facing him, and the other patrolling down the corridor.  
  
"Damn!" Raiden yelled, obviously a bit frustrated with his situation. He was about to become more frustrated, as the stationary guard had heard him.  
  
"What the hell was that?" the guard said to himself, as he walked over to investigate the noise. Raiden straightened up and was ready to engage the guard when he heard the door at the end of the guards' corridor open. Both guards turned toward the noise, their guns ready for whatever would come through the door. But after they saw who it was, they relaxed slightly, letting their guns hang from the strap on their shoulders. Raiden could not tell who it was, as he did not recognize the voice, but he knew that it had to be one of the terrorists. He moved over away from the three people, still hugging the wall, but he remained close enough to hear the conversation. He put his M4 away, but would be ready to use it if necessary.  
  
"Status report, soldiers," the man demanded of the two guards. His voice was very stern and demanding; it had the unemotional tone of a well- trained, heartless soldier.  
  
"Sir, we have reports that they've sent someone to stop our plans," said first guard. Raiden knew that he was the "someone" and that "they" were the Patriots.  
  
"If you see the intruder, you have strict orders not to kill him, do you understand? Leave that to me. We know only that he's a thin, white-haired Caucasian man attired in a blue skull suit."  
  
"Yes, sir!"  
  
"Are the explosives in place yet?"  
  
"Yes, sir, they are all planted and active," said the same guard.  
  
"Sir, there are several anti terrorist teams on their way to the compound, ETA two hours and thirty-five minutes," reported the second guard, speaking up for the first time.  
  
"Notify me immediately when they arrive. I'll be sure to take care of them."  
  
"Understood."  
  
Raiden then heard the door opening and closing, and knew that the man had left. This was his chance to get the jump on the guards. Both guards returned to their posts, readying their guns and looking for any intruders. The guard that was patrolling went back to his regular route. He walked past the stationary guard, and came down Raiden's corridor. After about three steps, the guard saw something out of the corner of his eye. Raiden instantly reacted with his incredible reflexes, knowing that he was spotted. The guard was only able to turn his head halfway, though it was enough to see Jack, before Raiden seized him. His move was unique, but he believed that it would work better than a normal chokehold. He hooked his right hand underneath the guard's right hand, putting him into a half nelson.  
  
"What the-!" The guard was so shocked that he wasn't able to finish his sentence.  
  
"Shut up!" yelled Raiden. He put one hand over the guard's mouth and dragged him back away from the other, stationary sentry. He stopped at the door of the storage room.  
  
He took his left arm off of the guard's mouth. The guard breathed an almost silent sigh of relief... until he saw that Raiden was reaching for his knife. The guard's eyes widen, and at the same time searched all around him for a way out. He had found one; he was going to die anyway, so there was nothing to lose. He'd thought of something. He tried to use his free left hand to somehow escape, desperation getting the best of him. Raiden viciously elbowed the outside of the guard's arm, in his elbow region. He then bent the guard's upper body to the left. The guard's torso, neck, and head were now facing diagonally upwards, which undoubtedly must have been a painful position. Raiden then placed his knife only several centimeters from his neck. All of this was done in a time span of about one second.  
  
"You're going to tell me where Solidus Snake is...right now...that is, unless you like the taste of cold steel."  
  
By now, the guard was sweating profusely and breathing heavily. His left arm was broken most likely. It bent the wrong way slightly in a sickening way, an intensely painful injury. His arm was now limp at his side, utterly useless.  
  
Needless to say, he didn't give Raiden the information that he wanted.  
  
"NOW!" Raiden was starting to get frustrated. He pushed the knife in farther. The steel was now touching the guard's neck.  
  
The guard let out a painful gasp, and a low groan, but gave up the information.  
  
"He-he's upstairs. Two flights. On the south side." The guard felt rather disloyal; he had told that he would not give any vital information to the enemy under any circumstances.  
  
"And the other hostages?" asked Raiden.  
  
"Other hostages? There are no other hostages." The soldier was rather confused.  
  
"Don't lie to me!" Raiden told him.  
  
"No-there aren't. Really."  
  
"Anything else I need to know?" Raiden asked.  
  
"You'll have to get past a semtex trap at the top of the stairs leading to the third floor. And that floor is extremely well guarded. You'll never get through."  
  
"We'll see about that."  
  
Raiden then used the handle of the knife as a weapon, striking the guard in the skull with it, seeing no need to kill. He opened the door to the storage room and dragged his unconscious victim inside and stuffed him into a locker. He made sure that the door was securely closed so that it would not open at any given time. His presence would definitely be known if that happened, something he didn't want.  
  
He pressed his ear against the door, listening for footsteps. When he heard none, he opened the door and left the room, his M4 in hand. He walked down the hall, but heard footsteps a little more than halfway down the corridor. Raiden cursed silently to himself and pressed up against the wall.  
  
He was going to use something he'd thought of in his stealth VR Missions. He stood right at the end of the wall, still pressed up against it. The guard got closer to him as Raiden patiently waited. He had to work on his instincts alone, as he could not look around the corner without being spotted. He waited, only on his gut feeling, and leapt out from the corner. As he did so, he threw a left hook, which startled the guard and gave Raiden his window of opportunity. He ducked behind the sentry, and grabbed him in an ordinary chokehold. He jerked his wrist almost instantly, and from the guard's neck area came a sickening crack. His victim instantly went limp in Raiden's arms, but he held his grip on the sentry.  
  
He dragged him back to where his first victim suffered his wrath, stopping in front of the door. Jack released the guard with one hand, only his right holding him up. He used his left hand to turn the doorknob and shove the door open. He then gripped his prey in both hands and walked in the room, right in front of the row lockers. He once again released his left hand from the guard's neck and gripped the locker handle, sliding it to the right, revealing a large empty space, just big enough to fit the guard's body into. He shoved the corpse in, back first, and slammed the door shut before the guard's body fell out.  
  
He heard a low 'thud' as the corpse fell into the inside if the locker door. He thought nothing more of it, and walked out of the room, gun at bear in front of him. He walked down faster than usual, and when he realized that there were no more sentries around to pose any kind of threat, he relaxed, putting his gun down, now only holding it in his right hand. He walked toward the door leading to what he could only assume was a staircase; it was not labeled, just a blank off-white.  
  
He pushed the door open aggressively and pointed his gun through the doorway, but found nothing but emptiness, just the stairs in front of him. He walked up the flight of steps and looked around once he reached the top of the first flight. Seeing nothing, he climbed the second set of stairs and saw a, once again unlabeled door. He remembered the guard's words: ...upstairs. Two flights. On the south side.  
  
You'll have to get past a semtex trap at the top of the stairs leading to the third floor. And that floor is extremely well guarded. You'll never get through.  
  
Remembering the sentry's last words, Jack turned the knob on the door slowly, and then shoved it open, forcing his gun through the open doorway, both his eyes and his gun fixated ahead of him. What he saw shocked, scared and amazed him all at the same time.  
  
It was a long hallway... a corridor of death. It was riddled with bodies, more than one person should be able to take care of.  
  
"This had to have been a team project," Raiden thought aloud. "No one man could possibly do all of this..."  
  
He leaned over and examined one of the bodies. He checked the pulse, putting his index and middle finger together on the guard's neck area.  
  
"No pulse," Raiden said to himself, surprised.  
  
Jack had a good reason to be surprised, however. This guard, and all the others, had no typical death wounds; no bullet holes, cuts, bruises, no kind of evidence of who, or what, had killed them.  
  
"Goddamn. What the hell happened to these people?" Raiden actually felt sorry for his enemy, laid out in front of him. He couldn't possibly imagine how anyone could have done this to them.  
  
Suddenly, something startled Jack out of his crouch. A sound, like nothing he'd heard before, a stomach turning death rattle. It was inhuman; Jack almost threw up upon hearing the spine tingling noise. He threw his gun up towards the corner and, soon after, the hideous sound stopped abruptly, just as quickly as it had started. Then, a guard's corpse was thrown to the wall at Raiden's right. It was thrown with a great velocity, the sentry's back hitting the wall with a thunderous 'crack!' the guard's back breaking in two.  
  
Raiden's first instinct was two help the sentry, who was still alive; he could tell by the fact that he was slightly moving, after falling to the floor. The guard fell on his side, and looked up at Raiden. There was a fear like nothing he'd seen before in the sentry's eyes, something indescribable, beyond explanation. The guard reached out with his left hand, towards Raiden, as if to say, "Please... help me..."  
  
Raiden felt like a heel not helping out a person in need, but he was the enemy, after all. What could he do? Nothing. He could do nothing, except watch the guard die right in front of him. His arm dropped to the floor, and his eyes slowly closed... it was the end for him, but not for Raiden.  
  
He turned the corner from which the guard had come, gun ready. He saw a tall, well-built man walking down the hall, the bottom of his long snakeskin vest slightly flapping up and down as he slowly walked down the hall. The man was easily seven feet tall, and a good three hundred plus pounds. His figure just screamed, "do not mess with me", like the red, black and yellow stripes of the coral snake that warned other predators not to bother it.  
  
"Him? He did this? Holy..."  
  
Nevertheless, Jack looked around the hall, and saw a door that was cracked open. He looked in the tiny gap between the door and the wall, and saw a man in a black trenchcoat talking to someone else, a man in copper colored armor, a man with graying hair and an eye patch over his left eye.  
  
Raiden rushed in the room and attacked his mission target, Solidus Snake... 


	9. Chapter 9: Identity Crisis

Chapter 9- Identity Crisis  
  
Snake woke up, groggy, the back of his neck still hurting. He tried to get up, but discovered that he was bound to a surface, what could only be a torture bed, by thick ropes.  
  
"Glad you're finally awake, Snake," said a voice. Snake looked around, trying to find the where the voice came from. His vision was too groggy to make out anything in the room, but he felt the torture bed being tilted, until it came to a perfect ninety-degree angle. When Snake's vision at last cleared up, he found that he was in the same room with the man who had knocked him out. Snake didn't recognize him, however, as he was attacked from behind. The man turned around, and Snake got a good look at his large assault rifle. A flashback then kicked in inside Snake's head. It was recent; right after the mystery man waylaid him. He was just losing consciousness, and looked up at his abductor. He got a glimpse of the large gun as it was being pointed at the sentry. It was the same gun he was looking at the now.  
  
It's him, Snake thought. He turned around, staring Snake straight in the eyes and vice versa. He pressed a button on his helmet and his visor went up; he wanted to make sure Snake could see the look in his eyes. Snake recognized his face; it reminded him of someone, but he couldn't pinpoint whom.  
  
"Imagine this, Snake," he said. "A shadow organization consisting of twelve people who control a country. These people have so much power, that they control every aspect of the nation. The Military's Tactical Network, political proposals, funding, the flow of information, the jobs that certain people get, even who becomes president. The control the all government activity, and have influence worldwide.  
  
"But, I'm sure you know all about this, Snake. I know that you're aware of the twelve men known as the Patriots. And I'm sure you know the Patriots' golden rule: anything they don't like, they get rid of... permanently. Including you, Snake. You shouldn't have been such a nuisance. Nothing but a proverbial thorn in the Patriot's side. Nothing but trouble for us has come from you, Snake. We try to kill you, but you survive, time and time again, no matter what we do." His voice was becoming louder as he said this, and he was pacing around the room. He came closer to Snake, face-to- face, nose-to- nose with the legend.  
  
"But that will end immediately. For now, we do battle." He then took out his large assault rifle and shot the ropes that bound Snake to the torture bed, releasing him. Snake fell to the floor on one knee, his palms hitting the tile to support him. He brought his head up to find that his opponent was gone. Snake stood and placed his hand on his Beretta, wondering why he wasn't stripped of his gear and weapons. Nevertheless, he got ready to hunt down his prey, when suddenly he felt an intense pain in the back of his knee. He started a sudden, unexpected descent toward the ground, but was able to use his momentum to his advantage, executing a forward roll that landed him on the opposite side of the room. He got up on one knee, turned around to face his opponent, his Beretta pointed at him.  
  
"I expected more than that from a guy who works for the Patriots," said Snake. "Is that the best you can do?"  
  
"Don't worry, Snake. There's plenty more where that came from!"  
  
"And there's plenty more where these come from, too!" Snake said as he unloaded a clip from his Beretta at his opponent. He did a back flip to dodge the bullets, and the bullets passed under his back. He lands behind the torture bed, and pressed up against it. He heard and felt the bullets pinging and panging off of the metal. Snake wouldn't usually have shot at someone behind sufficient cover, but he wanted revenge for his capture. And revenge was a dish best served ice cold. All of the bullets missed, and while Snake was preoccupied with his rage, his opponent threw a grenade over the top of his temporary shield. It landed next to Snake and detonated on impact, but Snake managed to dodge it. But, very much to Snake's dismay, it turned out to be a smoke grenade. Snake tried to find his way around the room, thick with smoke. He saw a dim gray outline and swung at it, a right cross followed by a left. Both were ducked under, and Snake attempted a roundhouse kick that was also blocked. A stream of bullets then hit his abdomen, sending him down on one knee. Snake then got two knees to his stomach, and a hard punch to his jaw, knocking him on the floor. He pointed the barrel of his assault rifle at Snake's head, as he lay semi-conscious on the floor.  
  
"Well, well Snake. Is this what you expected from someone who works for the Patriots?"  
  
Snake let out a groan of pain, barely able to speak. "Who-what are you?"  
  
"I am a Snake. Or should I say, I am the Snake. I am a replica of Big Boss, as are you, Snake, shaped completely in his image, with the same genes as you and your brothers. But Les Enfants Terribles was not my birthplace. No, Snake, I was, you could say, trained. by the Patriots! I am the first step in a line of genetic warriors! I am the Immortal Snake! And with you dead, I'll be one step closer to being."  
  
"You-you're nothing but a genetic freak, just another clone of a legendary soldier."  
  
"Just like you, Snake. Though I'm no clone, unlike you. You're nothing but an experiment gone horribly wrong."  
  
Snake spit out blood, choking, gagging on it.  
  
"Just-" He gagged, unable to get the words out. "Just-kill me, you bastard."  
  
Immortal then picked Snake up and threw him against the wall. Snake's back banged against the wall, and a sickening thud was heard. He fell to the ground and blood began to come from his mouth. Immortal then backed up against the opposite wall.  
  
"Your wish is my command, Snake! " His finger was a split second from the trigger, from hurling a stream of bullets toward Snake's head. Suddenly, several throwing stars were launched in Immortal's direction, missing his head and face by mere millimeters. Immortal pointed his F2000 around the room, trying to find out where the projectiles came from.  
  
"Come on, whoever you are! I didn't come here to play hide-and-seek!" he yelled to no one. A ninja suddenly landed across the room from him, the same one Snake had encountered earlier. He was face-to-face with the Immortal. He gave Immoral a cold, hatred-filled stare underneath the helmet. The ninja threw three throwing stars at Immortal, one at his arm, one at his leg, and one at his head. Immortal jumped up, crouched in mid- air, lowering his head, and the star flew over his head. He then lifted up his right arm and his left leg, still in the air, and both stars flew past him, harmlessly hitting the wall behind him. He landed on the ground, and pointed his F2000 in front of him, but the ninja was gone.  
  
The ninja unsheathed his sword, gleaming under the light. He held it with one hand and pointed the sharp end at Immortal, who responded by pointing the barrel his gun at the ninja's helmeted head. Suddenly, his grip on his gun weakened, causing it to drop to the floor. He grabbed his chest and screamed to heaven. Clawing at his chest, Immortal had and still felt a sudden sharp stab of pain in his heart region.  
  
"Ahhhhhhh!!!!!!!" He screamed, his hands moving frantically over the left side of his chest. The pain was steadily growing in his chest, getting stronger and stronger with every second passing.  
  
Immortal stopped grabbing at his chest, and the whole room seemed to fill with his frantic heartbeat. He staggered, trying his hardest to fight it, to beat whatever was steadily killing him. He couldn't contain the agony, and dropped to one knee. His legs ceased function, and Immortal fell on his back, unmoving.  
  
The ninja had no idea what had just happened, since he wasn't a medical expert. He paid it no further attention, and put his focus on Snake. He extended his hand in a gesture to help Snake up. But Snake, on his principle of "Don't Trust Anybody", did not accept the help of the ninja. He stood and took out his gun.  
  
"Who are you?" he said as he pointed his Colt 633 at the ninja. Snake gagged and coughed up blood, obviously in bad shape, barely able to stand. The ninja responded by... doing nothing. Nothing except dropping the hand that he had extended to help Snake to his feet.  
  
"We've never met as acquaintances, but we know each other well as enemies. I'm here to help you, and to put an end to the Patriots."  
  
"I hear that a lot," said Snake, dryly.  
  
"No one can hide behind a mask their entire lives, Snake. You deserve to know my true identity." He slowly took his helmet off.  
  
Meanwhile, in a small, nearby room, Revolver Ocelot watched the scene on a screen. He ejected a small disc and pocketed it.  
  
"Oh, yes, they will be most pleased." 


	10. Chapter 10: Father Vs Son

Chapter 10- Father Vs. Son  
  
Raiden rushed into the room, targeting the man in black. He was ready to slice the man's spine in half, just as he had Solidus', until he started to turn around. Raiden, the quick and agile soldier he was, reacted just in time to hide in a small alcove, barely big enough to fit Raiden's slender body, dark so, hopefully, he wouldn't be seen. The man in black raised a hand as a turned around, apparently a signal for Solidus to refrain from talking. He turned around, looking for the source of the sound. When he turned and faced Raiden, he saw a familiar looking face, but the man had sunglasses on, keeping Raiden from recognizing him fully. He decided to concentrate on hiding now, anyway.  
  
Raiden remembered these kinds of situations from Virtual Reality training. It was known as "Evasion Mode". The enemy knows that you're there; they can feel your presence, but they have no clue where you are at, so they search the room trying to find you. Raiden was actually very good at this, because he had gone through it so many times in VR after the virtual enemies had discovered him but then lost sight of the rookie.  
  
The man in the overcoat only needed to give Solidus a slight nod, and they proceeded to search the room. Raiden waited patiently, as he had learned to, his hand resting silently on his blade, and walked out of his hiding place when they both were facing away from him. He snuck up on the man in black and unsheathed his sword. He held it above his head for half-a- second, and brought it down with fierce velocity, prepared to cut the mystery man's backbone in two. His blade was suddenly cut off, a loud pinging sound echoing throughout the room, the sound bouncing off the walls. Raiden looked up and saw another blade, and continued to look up to see whom the hand that held it belonged to. A gloved hand held the handle, and Raiden immediately recognized the dark-copper armor that protected his the rest of his body, the two "snake arms" protruding from his back. Raiden let out a quick gasp, his shock showing in his tone of voice and the look on his face.  
  
"Glad you could make it, Jack," said Solidus Snake. "Who sent you? The Patriots?" He said this as he slowly but surely moved Raiden's blade up, easily overpowering him. Raiden grunted with the effort to keep this from happening, but to no avail.  
  
"Still nothing more than a pawn, I see. A pawn in the Patriot's game of supremacy. Jack... when are you going to stop letting them run your life? They already run the country, so now they are attempting to control individual's lives... as if they don't already. Controlling who gets the important US government positions; president, vice-president, where will it end?!" By this time, Solidus was using his blade to force Raiden's against his own neck; a mere twitch would slice his head off.  
  
"You seem surprised, Jack. Did you really think that you killed me on top of Federal Hall? Not a chance." Raiden was desperately trying to find a situation out of his dilemma, but failed to do so. He could feel the metal against his throat, cold as a winter Manhattan night, the sharp edge of the blade slightly piercing his neck. Solidus then reached for his P-90 submachine gun with his right hand, still holding the blade with his left.  
  
"But as much as I'd like to kill you right now, Jack, I cannot. You see, we need you alive, we need everyone here alive, for you see, failure is not an option."  
  
"Why... why do you need me alive?" asked Jack, barely able to speak with the blade piercing his throat.  
  
"You can figure that out on your own, Jack...." Solidus, quick as a cat, suddenly slashed up with his sword, knocking Raiden's into the air. He hit it with one bullet from his P-90, causing it to rotate. It was headed for Raiden's head, but Solidus, the sharpshooter that he was, didn't miscalculate. It landed right in front of Jack's forehead, slicing some of his hair off in the process. The blade landed tip first, impaling the floor. Raiden felt a stinging in the area around his left eye. He put his hand on his left eye and it came black bloody. There was a scar that went down the whole left side of his face, even his eyelid.  
  
"...If you survive." Solidus swung at Raiden, but he managed to dodge the swing. Solidus' blade connected with Raiden's, still impaled in the floor.  
  
They want me for something, thought Raiden. And whatever it is, it can't be good. He tried to avoid Solidus' swings, and did a fairly good job, moving with the grace of a bird, the speed of a jungle cat. He tried to get in a few blows on Solidus, but he, just as skilled, was also able to dodge.  
  
"If it's a fight you want, Jack, a fight you shall get." He holstered his two katanas and prepared for hand-to-hand combat. He swung at Raiden, two punches and a roundhouse kick. Jack dodged the two punches, but the kick connected with Raiden's ribs. Solidus attempted a right cross on his foe, but it was blocked, unexpectedly. Jack suddenly let out a flurry of punches and kicks, the first few connecting; he had the element of surprise on his side. But Solidus then learned Raiden's pattern, blocking just about every punch or kick that came his way, and swinging every time he blocked, although Raiden dodged most of them. One of Solidus' swings connected, however, a right hook to Raiden's chin. He stumbled backwards, facing away from his opponent. He regained his composure and turned around, ready to finish the fight. But when he did, Solidus was gone. He turned around, looking for his foe, and was met by powerful spinning kick that sent him crashing into a desk, splintering it into numerous pieces.  
  
Solidus walked over to the half-conscious Jack and stood over him. His left snake arm hovered over Raiden's neck, like a cobra stalking its prey. Suddenly, it struck, viciously gripping Jack's neck. He used it to choke him for about ten seconds, as Raiden grabbed it, trying to force it off. It was a futile effort; he had nowhere near enough strength. Solidus then lifted Raiden into the air, still choking the life out of him.  
  
"Give the Patriots a message, Jack," taunted Solidus. "Courtesy of Solidus Snake." He swung the arm that was choking Raiden, ready to send him halfway across the room, but an explosion suddenly went off. Solidus and the man in the leather coat were knocked off their feet against the wall. Raiden fell from midair after the snake arm released its grip. He fell on his back against the floor, barely conscious.  
  
He then heard the sound of gunfire and screaming, but never knew what was happening; if it was he or someone else that was being shot at. Raiden's codec then rang. It was the Patriot agent.  
  
"Jack, come in! Respond! Jack, respond!!" There was no answer. 


	11. Chapter 11: METAL GEAR!

Chapter 11- Metal Gear?!  
  
Snake looked at the ninja's face, recognizing it somehow, but not being able to pinpoint who he reminded him of. He had thin, messy red bangs. His skin was a dark complexion, a light bronze tone to it. Snake let out a low sigh, trying to figure out his identity.  
  
"Look, I don't have time to try and figure out who the hell you are. You said you're here to help stop the Patriots. What've you got?"  
  
"The Patriots are-" His sentence was cut off by a loud exploding sound. They both looked out the window of the room and saw dirt and snow slowly starting to tremble. The rubble then literally exploded into the air, launching sky-high, debris flying into the air. Something, very large, leapt straight into the air from seemingly beneath the ground, landing with an impact that would have shattered the Richter scale. With it's large metallic body and glowing red eyes both men immediately knew what it was.  
  
Snake grabbed Immortal's F2000, and started to run outside, but he got a look at the back of Immortal's neck first. It had a strange tattoo on it. It was a cross, with the words "Temptation" and "Revelation" placed above and below the image.  
  
"What the hell is that?" Snake was deep in thought. He took a photo of the tattoo with his camera and contacted Otacon.  
  
"Otacon, take a look at this for me. I'm transmitting a photo," said Snake.  
  
"What is that?" said Otacon after about three seconds.  
  
"A tattoo on one of Ocelot's henchmen," Snake told him.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Some guy calling himself Immortal. And I'll be damned if he's not. Claimed that he has the same genes as Big Boss, but he's not a clone."  
  
"Snake, that's impossible... unless-"  
  
"What?" asked Snake.  
  
"Nothing, just let me do a little research on this guy. Now, the tattoo. I recognize it. It was on Liquid's arm, remember?"  
  
"Except Liquid's had a snake and a staff," Snake told Otacon.  
  
"Right. Let me research a bit into this as well."  
  
Snake then heard a loud crash outside. "Otacon, I'll get back to you. I've got something to take care of right now."  
  
He ran outside, but hid behind a crane and watched a conversation between the pilot and the ninja, vowing to help his new partner if he needed it.  
  
The RAY let out a roar, as it's "mouth" opened into four parts, exposing the hydro cutter laser bay. It then returned to full height, and someone spoke from the cockpit.  
  
"What happened to the good friend that I once had?" said the RAY's pilot, apparently talking to the ninja. We were once partners-"  
  
"Cut the crap! I was never a partner of yours, nor will I ever be."  
  
"Don't be so naïve, Kyle. You were once a proud and loyal soldier, fighting for the good of your country. Now," the voice scoffed. "Now, you've not only degraded yourself, but the good name of the La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo."  
  
"No! The Patriots are nothing but power hungry tyrants. They want domination no matter what the price. Even if it means manipulating the citizens of America!"  
  
"Too bad you won't live to tell the world about it! Then again, no one ever does!" The mammoth machine rose to full height and let out another roar, as a lion or tiger would to mark his territory, warning others not to come closer.  
  
"Say goodbye Kyle!" screamed the pilot, still in the cockpit. Snake ran out, for he knew what was going to happen.  
  
"No!" yelled Snake. He ran up next to the ninja, still with no helmet on, and looked up at the colossal machine.  
  
"Oh, I see you've made a new friend, Kyle," said the pilot. "Why not introduce us? Wait, I know you. Yes, it must be! Solid Snake! Killing a rebel soldier and the legendary Solid Snake, all in one day? Oh, I think a promotion will be in place when I report back!"  
  
"Report back? To who?"  
  
"Who else, Snake? The La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo!"  
  
"The Patriots?!" yelled Snake, confused and frustrated at the same time. What are they planning here? He thought. He vowed to find out before the day was done.  
  
Snake got out the F2000 that he took from Immortal, and looked through the scope, hoping to hit the Metal Gear with a few grenades, aiming carefully.  
  
"Take all the time that you need, Snake! You're not making it out of here alive!"  
  
The rockets from RAY's hull were then, without warning, launched toward Snake and "Kyle", about five or six of them. Both men were a little preoccupied with trying to live to count them. Snake ran away from the Ray, though two of the missiles followed him. He executed a roll, and the missiles landed where he had been a split second earlier. Kyle, however, teleported from place to place, and the missiles were unable to keep up with him, harmlessly hitting the ground. Snake saw him, and tried to figure something out about how he was able to do it.  
  
We've never met as acquaintances, but we know each other well as enemies. Snake thought about the words of his new ally.  
  
He then remembered the throwing stars he used in the middle of his fight against Immortal. A flashback then kicked in, to Zanzibar. It was a fierce fight between Snake and Black Color, a man that was once a civilian, experimented on, and turned into one of Snake's toughest opponents. He recalled the way he would teleport around the room to avoid Snake, just as he was now to avoid RAY's missiles, and to catch Immortal by surprise. He also recalled the throwing stars that he had used, in the fight between Snake and Immortal and back in Zanzibar.  
  
Kyle Schneider?! Black Color?! But I killed him. Snake thought He watched him a little longer. The pilot seemed to have completely forgotten about Snake; he was concentrating all his attention on Black Color. RAY let out a roar, which forced the opening its mouth plates, before it fired the missiles from it's knees at Schneider, two fast moving rockets headed straight for him. Once again, he teleported, but this time, he literally disappeared for about five seconds. He suddenly emerged right in front of RAY's open mouth. He put the barrel of the AUG Assault Rifle he was carrying in RAY's mouth, and pulled the trigger. The bullets screamed as they traveled from the gun to RAY's mouth, splashing red nanopaste everywhere. RAY's head jerked violently, but Schneider stood there, still holding the trigger, staring deep into RAY's eyes, so that the pilot could see the hatred in his eyes.  
  
Suddenly, RAY's mouth closed, crushing Black Color's gun, and almost his hand. The RAY returned to full height, the whole machine shaking violently now. Kyle didn't move from his position in front of RAY, standing his ground like a true soldier.  
  
Snake and Kyle then heard the sound of military choppers headed their way. Everyone, except the RAY, which continued to malfunction, looked in the direction that the sound was coming from. Indeed, they saw about twenty choppers headed for them, a mix of Hind Ds , Kasatkas and Night Havoc gunships, and reinforcements were surely on the way. Two Kasatkas and a Hind D were headed for Snake and Kyle, and the rest headed for RAY. The Metal Gear had stopped shaking and now focused on the choppers. RAY's eyes glowed a luminous red, staring at the choppers like a wild animal looks at its prey before it strikes. The helicopters launched rockets and air-to-air missiles at RAY, and the soldiers sprayed the tank with machine gun fire, but they did nothing. There weren't enough of them to do any significant damage before the RAY attacked. It launched rockets from its hull, and they all landed on their target, taking out four choppers. Schneider took advantage of the momentary cease-fire on he and Snake.  
  
"Snake you have to take down those helicopters! I'll go after RAY!" yelled Kyle above the sound of bombs exploding and screaming soldiers.  
  
Snake started to object, but decided against it. He'll find a way to take it down, he thought. Snake looked up at the choppers and put the grenade launcher barrel in the direction of the helicopters. He launched a grenade at the first chopper, a Hind. It landed on the chopper, right underneath the blades, and exploded, causing the Hind to jerk slightly. It stayed in the air however, and continued firing its Gatling gun at Snake.  
  
Snake moved around constantly as not to get hit by the machine gun fire both from the choppers and the soldiers inside, not to mention the occasional air-to-ground missile that came his way. He launched two more grenades at the Hind, and they both exploded on impact, causing the helicopter to malfunction temporarily, but it remained in the air. Snake launched one more grenade at the Hind, and it hit the engine, causing it to catch on fire and immediately crash to the ground. But before it did, it was able to launch one air-to-ground missile at Snake. It hit the ground near Snake, too far for him to notice, yet close enough for him to be affected by the explosion. Snake let out a loud yell as he was knocked off his feet and immediately hit with machine gun fire.  
  
Snake instantly pulled himself up, crouching and running away from the gunfire until he found a safe hiding place. He then aimed up his grenade launcher, targeting the engine of the first Kasatka, and he hit it, sending the chopper down to the ground in a fiery explosion. He then aimed for the engine of the second Kasatka, and shot a grenade at it, but it didn't go down. Snake was then hit by machine gun fire, causing him to drop his gun. Once he recovered, he rolled to his gun, picking it up in the process. He put the scope up to his eye and aimed at the chopper and sent a grenade towards it. It landed inside the chopper and detonated, sending the chopper crashing towards the ground.  
  
He then looked over at RAY. He saw destruction, the RAY taking down everything that came its way. Snake then saw a fleet of KA-50 Kamovs headed their way, no doubt as reinforcements. These were the strongest helicopters that the Russian military had, but they were still no match for RAY. It easily took them down, using the rockets from the hull, launching them in the air, and allowing gravity to bring them down. onto the choppers. Once all the choppers were down, RAY's pilot focused on Kyle.  
  
Schneider was having no problem avoiding RAY's attacks, but he had nothing to take it down with. He then teleported, and appeared next to one of the choppers, a Kamov. He then used his incredible strength and ripped the rocket pod off of one of the wings! He pointed it towards RAY, and launched several rockets toward it. They all connected, sending red nanopaste into the air. The RAY screeched loudly, a sign of its "pain". The RAY walked towards Schneider, barely able to, and lifted up its foot, ready to crush the enemy, but Kyle teleported from underneath RAY's foot, and ended up next to it. RAY sent its foot crashing to the ground, and the impact knocked Kyle off his feet; even Snake stumbled. A group of cluster bombs were sent towards the fallen soldier. They exploded, and landed in the area near Kyle. Snake heard a loud scream and ran over to the destruction.  
  
"Well, well, Snake. I killed your little friend. You're next!" The RAY bent over and let out a roar. It launched machine gun fire at Snake, which he was able to dodge. He then sent the cluster bombs that had killed Schneider, but Snake avoided those as well. RAY tried its last resort, sending the hull rockets toward Snake, but they were unable to connect as well. Snake could do nothing but dodge; he had nothing to combat the Metal Gear. Then, completely unexpected to Snake, two missiles were launched from it's knees, and they connected, hitting each other, the explosion knocking Snake off of his feet, almost unconscious. RAY then leaned down, and stopped abruptly.  
  
The pilot jumped out of the RAY, a large, brown-haired man, a little gray on the sides, showing that he was a seasoned war veteran. He had on a sleeveless leather shirt and leather pants. He had a blue neckerchief on, which was blowing in the wind.  
  
"Time to die, Snake!" he yelled. He took out what appeared to be a Desert Eagle and aimed it at Snake's head. Then, a smoke grenade went off, fogging the entire area, no one able to see. Several punches were heard, then a gunshot suddenly went off. When the smoke cleared, the pilot was on the ground, Snake was trying to get up, and Kyle was seen, smoke coming from his Desert Eagle. 


	12. Chapter 12: A New Ally

Chapter 12- A New Ally  
  
Raiden's eyes slowly opened, what could've been, minutes, hours, or even days later. Jack had no clue. He looked up, and found himself looking at a well-built man with a snakeskin vest on along with a white sleeveless shirt underneath, brown army pants, and snakeskin boots. He had a M-17 in his hand, holding it as if it was a pistol. He had a pair of dog tags around his neck, the silver shining under the ultraviolet light.  
  
Jack looked up at the man's face, but he had a thin, red cloth mask on that concealed his entire face, and he had two triangular punctures where his eyes should be, presumably to see. He had messy brown-orange hair that hung out everywhere except in front of his mask. He had one holster on each leg that carried two sidearms. On his waist were several knife holsters. He was a walking death machine.  
  
The next thing Raiden saw was the M-17 that he was holding, which appeared to be pointed at him. Raiden, obviously paranoid, quickly stood up and pointed his M4 at the mystery man's masked head.  
  
"Who are you?!" Jack's hand was shaking slightly; the small amount of fear that he undoubtedly felt was showing. The man then made his move. His action was too fast for Raiden's eyes to see, but before Jack knew what happened, he ended up with Raiden's M4 in his left hand, and his M-17, in his right hand, pointed at Raiden's chin. The gun was pressed so hard against Jack's chin that the barrel almost punctured the skin. It was clear that this man meant business. He gave Raiden his gun back, and took his own gun from against Raiden's chin. He gave Jack a hard stare, like he was trying to figure out who he was. Apparently, he did.  
  
"So you're the one," he said. He started to walk off without Raiden, who was conferring on his codec. When he realized that Raiden was not with him he turned back and looked at his apparent partner.  
  
"Jack, what's going on?" asked the Patriot agent.  
  
"Is there another operative on this mission?" asked a slightly confused Jack.  
  
"Nanomachines," said the masked man. "Definitely has cerebral implants as well."  
  
"Yes there is, Jack. I see that you met up with him. Former Lieutenant Jake 'Hawk' McNeil. He's our own hired assassin, sent to assist you on your mission. Like it or not, you will be working with this man."  
  
"Why didn't you just send him in the first place?"  
  
"Solidus is their main hostage. We believe that he is the most likely to have the most information. He must be the first to be eliminated. We knew from the Big Shell that if anyone could stop him, it was you. We sent your partner to provide backup, in case something unfortunate were to happen that would jeopardize our mission."  
  
"That man doesn't need a partner. He's a one man killing machine!"  
  
"It doesn't matter what he is. You will be working with him. Now carry out your mission immediately. Assassinate those hostages."  
  
"Understood. Over and out." Raiden disconnected the call.  
  
McNeil started to leave the room, and Raiden followed. He crouched, so as not to make any noise. He looked back at Raiden, who was walking rather noisily.  
  
"Stay low," McNeil advised. "No one can know that we're here." They continued down the hall, quietly. If anyone was around, they had no idea that the two were there. Raiden had the lead, his M4 pointed in front of him, and his eyes were looking all around the hallway in front of him. McNeil acted as a lookout, walking backwards down the hall, making sure no one would sneak up on them; the two were literally back-to-back. They came to a room, and Raiden peered around the doorway. He saw Solidus, and someone else. He fell back immediately, so he couldn't tell whom the other person was. He put his hand up, signaling McNeil to stop. He did, but underneath the mask, he had a very disgusted look on his face. He didn't like to be ordered around, apparently. They both pressed their backs against the wall and crouched, getting as close to the door as possible. They listened in on Solidus' conversation with the other man.  
  
"--here yet?" said the man Solidus was talking with. Raiden didn't hear the first few words of the sentence.  
  
"Yes, he arrived a short while ago," answered Solidus. "The Patriots sent him, no doubt. They didn't have much of a choice."  
  
"Are you sure that his cerebral implants are carrying the information that we need?"  
  
"Absolutely. They're using the boy's nanomachines to manipulate the electrical impulses in his brain. I should have no trouble tracing the signals to the Patriots location."  
  
"Perfect. Your strategy is working better than I expected."  
  
What the hell are they talking about? thought Raiden.  
  
"McNeil, what-" Raiden's sentence was cut off by a loud voice.  
  
"Intruders! Over here! I need backup!" Before either of them could blink, twelve soldiers surrounded them! 


	13. Chapter 13: Questions and Answers

Chapter 13- Questions and Answers  
  
Snake looked at the destruction around him. Small but raging fires illuminated twisted metal heaps that used to be choppers. Bodies were strewn about; the area around them stained a deep crimson red. Snake looked at RAY, unmoving, ominous against the darkness of the night. The Metal Gear was in a crouch position, its head low to the ground; so low that Snake and Schneider could literally stare straight into the glowing metal plates that were the RAY's "eyes". Schneider's hand still held the Desert Eagle that he had apparently used to kill RAY's pilot.  
  
Snake looked down at the body of the mystery soldier. He could see blood and brain tissue around his head, indicating a severe headshot. It wasn't a pretty sight, but Snake ignored it as if it was nothing, his face showing no emotion whatsoever.  
  
He looked up at Schneider, who was examining the Desert Eagle as if it were sacred. He dropped it to the ground, but his eyes remained locked onto the place where the gun was while he was holding it. It seemed as if he were in another world. The gun landed at his feet, and then he looked up at the sky, not showing any emotion on his face. Both of Schneider's hands formed tight fists. Snake then noticed something on Schneider's wrists. Metal shackles were attached to them, as well as both his ankles. A short chain dangled on each individual manacle. If there had been a single, long metal link connecting the two wrist shackles and the two ankle shackles, it had been crudely broken, leaving only the ends. But Snake didn't give it a second thought.  
  
He circled the fallen soldier, with his Beretta pointed at him, the laser sight playing on his unmoving body. He was laying on his right side and part of his back, his left arm crossed over to his right side, facing away from Snake. Snake nudged him with the toe of his boot, as he was always trained to do in order to make sure that the enemy was dead, still holding the Beretta in his direction. He was forced over on his side, and, other than that, remained motionless. Snake got down on one knee and checked for a pulse with his right hand, his sidearm still in his left. None.  
  
He stood back up and looked at Schneider, who appeared to be back to normal, but Snake could barely remember what normal was. His life hadn't been normal since the day he was born. Born with no purpose other than to be a human killing machine. Snake suddenly got a codec call. Otacon was on the other end.  
  
"Snake, you there?" Otacon sounded worried.  
  
"Otacon, what's wrong?" asked Snake, immediately after hearing the nervousness in Otacon's tone of voice.  
  
"I just got this weird message on my computer. It's in some kind of weird code. I'm almost afraid that it'll be indecipherable."  
  
"Can you trace where it came from?" asked Snake.  
  
"No. I can't any hints of a trace. Whoever sent this was careful that no one would no who they were."  
  
"It's not anonymous?"  
  
"No. This mission is turning for the worse, Snake."  
  
"Don't worry," said Snake. "By now, I'm used to things screwing up like this."  
  
"Oh, well, good. Because I have something to tell you."  
  
"More bad news, Otacon?" asked Snake, as if he didn't know.  
  
"Afraid so. Someone is monitoring you, Snake. Watching your every move."  
  
"Does that include the codec transmissions?"  
  
"No, just your actions on the battlefield, which makes me worry. It's downright weird."  
  
"Well, this just wouldn't be bad news unless you can't figure out who it is," said Snake, sarcastically.  
  
"Of course. You hit the proverbial nail on the head."  
  
"Ever find out Russia's motive for stealing RAY?"  
  
"No. But listen Snake. I've found out that there is a local resistance group that is trying to stop whatever it is that they're doing. Try to get in touch with someone that is working for them."  
  
"Will do," said Snake as the call was disconnected. Schneider then turned around to face Snake.  
  
"Switch over to codec, Snake," he said as he tapped the inside of his ear.  
  
"What's going on around here, Schneider?" asked Snake.  
  
"It's them, Snake. They're behind this."  
  
"Entirely?"  
  
"No, not quite," started Schneider. "It all started after Liquid Snake stole the Metal Gear RAY prototype at the Big Shell cleanup facility incident. As you may know, he was on a quest to eliminate the Patriots."  
  
"I can't blame him."  
  
"He took control over the Russian private army that was formerly headed by Sergei Gurlukovich, then given to his heir, Olga Gurlukovich. was a dictator; he convinced Russia that with his help, he could eliminate the Patriots and rebuild communist Russia. They decided to accept his offer, and also agreed to keep metal gear here on this remote island. Liquid Snake assisted them in smuggling goods from the United States to this Russian island."  
  
"Military goods, I assume," said Snake.  
  
"Exactly. They, Liquid and the Russian army, were planning on taking RAY and upgrading it, enhancing its abilities. You should know that Revolver Ocelot had the specifications of Metal Gear, before selling them on the black market. And Liquid had. well, a rather easy time getting a hold of them as well. With those specs, it should be no problem for Liquid to be able to do what he intends, expanding its capabilities. He had the same theory as George Sears. Destroying the mindless masses that they control could stop them, he thought. That's one part of the story. Only the beginning."  
  
"How do you know all this?" asked Snake.  
  
"I should. I was--"  
  
Suddenly, Schneider let out a scream of sheer agony. The codec call was immediately cut. Snake looked over at his ally, trying to figure out what was happening.  
  
"My suit... they're... shutting off...!"  
  
"They?" said Snake. He immediately knew whom he was talking about. "It can't be!"  
  
Schneider then let out another ear splitting scream. Plasma bolts were released from his suit, appearing as thin sparks emanating from the metal. Schneider stumbled like a drunk, struggling to stay on his feet. Eventually, the struggle ended. He fell to the ground, either unconscious, or the other, higher possibility, dead. Snake knew that it was the latter. He looked at his ally, and anger and hatred filled his eyes.  
  
"The Patriots..." he said in a low voice. 


	14. Chapter 14: Reunited at Last

Chapter 14- Reunited at Last  
  
Twelve soldiers had their guns pointed at Raiden and McNeil. They were no regular sentries. These were attack team members. Half of them had glass riot shields, but held handguns instead of assault carbines. One soldier jammed the barrel of his gun into Raiden's back, and another one did the same to McNeil. Neither of them reacted, however, only holstering their guns. Raiden took a glance at McNeil and reached for his gun. The soldier jammed his gun harder into Raiden's back, and McNeil shook his head as if to say," Don't do anything." The soldiers then proceeded to lead them somewhere, and Raiden and McNeil went along with them. McNeil's eyes started to get shifty underneath the mask, looking at the soldiers around him, but he didn't do anything except follow the guards. They were lead down a hall, and the soldiers stopped when they saw a black man of medium height with brown dreadlocks hanging from his head. He had a leather trench coat on, black in color, with a high collar that covered all of his face except for his eyes. But a pair of black sunglasses did that job, covering his eyes. The top of the coat was closed, and the bottom half, below his waist, was open, slit up the middle about halfway to his waist. He approached Raiden. The man was eerily calm, not even appearing to acknowledge the fact that he had two heartless killers standing in front of him.  
  
"Raiden, am I right? Or do you prefer 'White Devil'? What a pleasure to meet you. The Boss told us that you were coming." He then looked right into Raiden's eyes, a cold, concentrated stare. It was as if he was trying to figure out what was on his mind.  
  
"You've been to Hell and back, haven't you? I can see it in your eyes, the look of a soulless murderer. The fires of Hell are inside you, just waiting to come out. But they've changed you, haven't they? You're under their control now; they've completely taken away any free will that you had. A machine, a weapon, a slave controlled by twelve men who don't give a damn about you." He smirked as he said this. He was having fun getting inside Raiden's head. The worst soldier is an unstable one, and he knew that. Raiden was on his way to that instability.  
  
"NO! That's not true! I DO have a will of my own!" Raiden lashed out, obviously insulted.  
  
"Who are you trying to convince, Jack? Me or yourself? Why do you think the Patriots chose you for their little experiment, the S3 project? Because you never have and never will have any kind of free will. Whether it was in Solidus' army of the Devil, your VR training programs, or at the Big Shell, you've always taken orders from others. You were the puppet and the Patriots were pulling the strings. But don't feel bad, Raiden. You're not the only one. They've sent many of your kind, and each one we eliminated, one by one. And you're next, Jack.  
  
"How do you know about me and the Army of the Devil? Who are you?"  
  
Raiden's new foe then removed the sunglasses covering his eyes. That's when Raiden was able to recognize him.  
  
"You--you're... Ryan. Ryan Lambert."  
  
Ryan Lambert was also a soldier in Solidus' Army of the Devil. He was one of Raiden's best friends, not that he had many. After all, war isn't about friends. It's about enemies, and defeating them.  
  
"No. No longer Ryan Lambert. Now, I'm Ghost, humanity's best and last hope of freedom."  
  
"Why have you turned into a... a terrorist?"  
  
"I would hardly call what we're doing terrorism. The Patriots have robbed this nation of the things that made it what it is, or rather, what it once was. Freedom, opportunity, civil rights." He gave a slight chuckle. "'Home of the free'. 'Land of opportunity'. This nation is neither, thanks to the Patriots. Joins us, Jack, and I guarantee that the Patriots will be no more."  
  
Raiden actually thought about the offer. The Patriots had to be stopped. But what could he do? If he resisted the mission or aided the enemy in any way, his wife and child would be killed. Raiden finally gave an answer.  
  
"No! You're nothing but power hungry tyrants! I refuse!" Raiden obviously didn't want him to know about the situation that the Patriots had brought upon him.  
  
"I see, Jack," replied Ghost. "They have changed you. I have no choice."  
  
He placed his sunglasses back over his eyes and turned toward the guards, who were still standing at attention, with their guns jammed into the backs of both Raiden and McNeil.  
  
"Eliminate the masked one," he told them, "but leave the rookie to me." As he said this, he took out the other handgun in his left leg on either side of his waist. He let both sidearms rest at his side as he gave the guards more orders.  
  
Raiden, however, didn't hear whatever he was saying. He was thinking about what he had said. "They've sent many of your kind, each one eliminated one by one". The words echoed in Raiden's head. Had other helpless souls really been condemned to Raiden's fate? Jack suddenly had a strange combination of sympathy and anger; he didn't feel the two emotions separately, but as one feeling, which is why he thought of it as strange.  
  
"This is your last opportunity, Jack. For freedom. Emancipation," Ghost offered.  
  
"No!" Raiden yelled. "I'll die before I join you!"  
  
"Oh, don't worry Jack. You will die."  
  
"Would you really kill an old comrade?" Raiden asked, as if he didn't know the answer. War changes most soldiers. Some for the best. Some for the worst.  
  
"What do you think, Jack? You will die here, Raiden. But not before you're put to good use. After all, no one should die needlessly, right? Especially someone as useful as you." He pointed one handgun at Raiden's head as he said this. "Although I must admit, the urge to kill you is killing me."  
  
Jack had a confused look on his face. He had no clue what this man was talking about. What did they want him for? And who the hell was this "Boss" he kept talking about? Raiden had a lot to find out, and he silently vowed to get the information that he needed.  
  
"I think I'll enjoy this. Let's see what all your training has done for you. Get ready!" He took out both of his PT945s, pointed them at Raiden, and the battle began. 


	15. Chapter 15: The Uprising

Snake looked at his fallen ally in shock, but no look of sympathy or sadness was on his face. Only anger. Then, he heard footsteps that appeared to come out of nowhere. He ran in the opposite direction of the sound, and found a crate to hide behind. He was about two hundred feet away from wherever the soldiers were going, which was far too much of a distance for the human eye to hope to see. He put his scope up to his eyes and zoomed in to where he had been five seconds earlier. He spotted two guards, and they were standing near the lifeless Black Color. One guard took out his two-way radio; he was receiving a call.  
  
"Sir, we have a casualty on the outside of Tower B."  
  
"Who is it?" The voice came from the radio, full of static and not very clear.  
  
"No identification is available right now. But he's wearing a metal exoskeleton. It must be one of them. The boss must have eliminated him."  
  
"Bring him in for identification at once! Understood?" The voice was stern, but not angry or irritated.  
  
"Yes, sir." The guard put his radio away, behind the right side of his hip. Before they could do anything, however, Snake put his scope away and took out his Beretta in about one second. In the next second, he aimed and put a slug into each of the soldier's hearts, the second shot no more than a split second after the first. Impossible for anyone... except Solid Snake. Both guards crumpled and fell to the snow. Snake let his Beretta hang from his right hand and walked over to the guards' location to try to find any useful items, and to dispose of the bodies. However, Snake was stopped by a sound behind him, a single footstep, but Snake was able to react instantly. He turned around, with his Beretta pointed straight in front him, his eyes locked on the location of the sound. He saw a well built African-American man in a woodland camouflage body suit. The sleeves were rolled up, and he had on a matching military issue cap. His right sleeve was slightly torn, there were small blood stains all over his suit, and a scar on his right arm. He walked with an extreme limp. The man looked like he had been in a car wreck, yet Snake instantly recognized him from the Tanker incident. And vice versa.  
  
"Snake... you-you survived that exploding Tanker? What are you doing here in Russia--in league with the terrorists, perhaps?"  
  
"I could ask you those same questions," Snake replied. He then saw Dolph's right hand. He was holding his sidearm halfway out of the holster on his hip.  
  
"Don't worry, Scott. I'm not with the terrorists. Hope that I can say the same about you." As if to give Dolph a little more insurance, he put away his own sidearm.  
  
"Well, fear not. I'm not with the terrorists. I'm here to stop the Patriots' plan."  
  
"Their plan? Kyle was telling me-" Snake started, but Dolph cut him off.  
  
"Kyle? Did you meet up with Schneider already? Where is he now?"  
  
"He-he was killed," replied Snake. "Just a few minutes ago."  
  
"Killed? By who?" Dolph didn't have much sympathy in his voice; it was more anger than anything.  
  
Snake let out a low, quick groan. "No clue. His suit malfunctioned, and that was it. What brought you here?"  
  
"My resistance group came, and thought we could take down the terrorists. We were wrong. All of our members were murdered, with the exception of myself, Rob Lucier, our expert on the Patriots, and Schneider. I now realize the fatal mistake we made; coming in with no plan of any kind."  
  
"Coming into a battle without a strategy?" said Snake. "Not the brightest idea."  
  
"We were desperate, Snake. Desperate men will do desperate, and most likely stupid, things. It's a long story to tell, Snake."  
  
"Then start by telling me who this 'we' is that you keep referring to," Snake asked of him.  
  
"We call ourselves La Soulevemente (French for "the uprising". Go figure =P). A resistance group dedicated to ending the Patriots' reign. We once had as many as twenty members, but now it's just myself, Schneider and Lucier. We also have connections with the US Navy SEALs and other anti- terrorist units."  
  
"Who exactly are the terrorists? Oeclot and his men?"  
  
"Exactly, Snake. Genetic super-soldiers under the Patriots jurisdiction."  
  
"Why are the Patriots here in the first place? This situation is all Liquid's doing, if I remember correctly..."  
  
"Right, Snake. I'm sure you already know that he recruited the left-for- dead Gurlukovich private army, with his collection of lies and false promises..."  
  
"Not exactly unheard of nowadays," responded Snake. "And it doesn't sound unlike Liquid."  
  
"Exactly. He realized that one man could never defeat twelve men running the country by himself, so he drafted his own army. But he won't stop there. Soon, he'll have top-notch mercenaries on his side, eventually becoming near unstoppable..."  
  
"How exactly did Liquid...rise from the dead? His body was positively IDed three years ago; there's no doubt that it was him."  
  
"Snake, Liquid's rebirth was the Patriots' doing," Dolph replied.  
  
"What the hell? Why reincarnate their biggest enemy?"  
  
"It's part of their latest black project, though that wasn't the original plan. Let me start at the beginning. Tell me, do you remember the disappearance of about a hundred United States Army, Navy and Air Force rookies?"  
  
"Yeah," replied Snake. "I do. The government blamed it on some kind of mass, serial murder. I, for one, didn't buy it for a second. Something was definitely up."  
  
"Exactly. There was no murder or kidnapping or anything like that. Only government controlled propaganda. Just another lie." Dolph's eyes just about caught fire; bloodlust and hatred for The Patriots was in them. They were driving him slowly but surely insane, as they've probably done to many other people.  
  
"Snake, they used those helpless rookies as pawns in their latest black project," Dolph informed Snake as he regained his cool.  
  
"Doesn't surprise me," Snake commented. "The Patriots have been manipulating people ever since I can remember."  
  
"Precisely, Snake. But now they're taking it to a whole new level. Snake, genetic technology have been America's greatest research for the past thirty years. They've been searching for a while to find a way to create warriors in the essence. As you know, training a soldier into a Foxhound- esque super-soldier takes at the least five to six years. But what if a soldier of that caliber could be "trained" in less than a year and a half?"  
  
"Not possible," Snake said.  
  
"That's what everyone else thought as well, Snake. But it is very possible. Snake, those hundred soldiers that were captured by the Patriots were put to a number of grueling training processes, which turned about twenty of them into super soldiers. The others didn't survive."  
  
"What kind of exercises?" asked Snake.  
  
"The soldiers were first put to normal field exercises. Military techniques such as capture the flag, obstacle courses, and even simple stretches and workouts. They did this for twelve to fifteen hours everyday at least for the first five to six months. Then things got more complicated. They started the biological and genetic tests and experiments.  
  
"It started with what's called carbide ceramic ossification. It was basically a type of endoskeleton process. It was a type of grafting onto the soldiers' skeletal structure; it made their bones virtually unbreakable. Several of them died during this process due to white blood cell necrosis, which was an obvious risk. The Patriots didn't seem to know or care, however. And the Patriots are no idiots."  
  
"They never do care about anyone or anything other than themselves."  
  
"But that's only the beginning," continued Scott. "Next came the occipital capillary reversal. They manipulated the retina of certain subjects and boosted blood vessel flow beneath the cones of the retinas. The result-"  
  
"An instant sniper." Snake finished his sentence for him.  
  
"Right. However, in some cases, the process did the opposite of its original intentions, permanently blinding a number of the subjects."  
  
"A handicapped soldier is not necessarily a useless one," Snake cut in.  
  
"Apparently, the Patriots don't think the same way that you do, Snake. They deemed them useless, and ordered them killed. Like you said, the Patriots care only about themselves and their wants.  
  
"Only one more process remained...that is, before the big finale of the project. They altered the bioelectrical nerve and shielded electronic transduction of the subjects."  
  
"Greatly increased reflexes," Snake cut in, once again.  
  
"Exactly. By more than three hundred times. And all of this wasn't easy. These processes killed more than half of the test subjects alone. But that wasn't the end. They've learned to do something that they never could, but have always wanted to. The Patriots have discovered a way to manipulate soldier genes, even create artificial soldier genes."  
  
"How did they manage to do that?" Snake asked.  
  
"Snake, where have you been for the past ten years? Under a rock? It's 2011. Time to join the twenty-first century, my friend."  
  
Snake and Scott shared a small laugh, but immediately got back to business.  
  
"But, in all seriousness, Snake, only the Patriots know how they did it. But they did, and the results are the terrorists that you and I face."  
  
"And they agreed to this?"  
  
"No, not a chance. The subjects were put under the influence of a hallucinogenic drug; basically, simple brainwashing, amnesia and mind control. But some of them fought it and resisted, such as Schneider and the other soldiers that we had before we came here. Perhaps they were 'immune' to the drugs that were used. Those who resisted and were found were immediately killed."  
  
"But wait..." said Snake. "What does any of this have to do with Liquid's rebirth?"  
  
"Well, if you remember from the Arsenal incident a little more than two years ago, the Patriots told Raiden that they were able to digitalize life. They can It started with Kyle Schneider after Zanzibar, then Gray Fox after Outer Heaven. Now, they've used it on Liquid. Although it doesn't sound like it, it takes a while and is a severe and punishing process; you saw the adverse effects it had on Fox and Schneider. I believe that they were able to this, to..." Dolph was searching for the right word.  
  
"...'download' life into Liquid's lifeless body. But he also resisted against the Patriots and managed to escape.  
  
"Just like the Liquid I know," Snake added.  
  
"Snake, if this project succeeds like the Patriots want it to, the results could be catastrophic. They'll have finally done what they've wanted-"  
  
Suddenly, a sound triggered Snake's reflexes. He took out his Beretta and pointed it towards the source of the sound. It was made by a team of four soldiers, looking for something, their heads turning in every direction. These were no Russian soldiers, however. The soldiers were very high tech, from what Snake could see. Equipped with night vision and balaclavas that gave them the red-eyed look of pure evil, 12-gauge shotguns in their hands, and clad in shades of black and gray, these guys meant business. They looked like reincarnations of the devil, all black silhouettes in the distance with piercing red eyes.  
  
"No... damn," Dolph said. "They're looking for me, Snake. I can't afford to be found... They'll kill me on sight, I know it. And I'm in no condition to fight." Dolph had just made a mistake. He distracted Snake with those few though important words. The guards had spotted them both. Snake kept his sidearm trained on the enemy, radiating death with every breath that he took.  
  
Snake got a better look at them as he got closer, and saw that they were wearing some type of armor that Snake could hardly recognize.  
  
But it didn't matter. All Snake could think about was his trigger finger just waiting to act, to send hot lead into each of the soldiers' hearts. Someone was going to die here, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Solid Snake. As the battle began, he gave Dolph a bit of advice.  
  
"GET DOWN!" 


	16. Chapter 16: Feel My Pain

Chapter 16- Feel My Pain  
  
McNeil, seeing the gun pointed towards Raiden's head as a signal for battle to begin, mounted some offense of his own. He made the first move against the guards and threw a hard right hand at the nearest sentry. The guard, in instinctive self-defense, clutched the handle attached to the back of his glass riot shield and raised it, lowering his head so that he was looking at the floor... although he wasn't looking at anything, as his eyes were closed in fear of his soon-to-be fate. McNeil's fist connected with the shield, which, contrary to the guard's belief, did not serve its purpose very well. Upon being struck by McNeil's right hand, it shattered into countless pieces. The guard now had no protection except a Kevlar vest, his helmet, and a small Beretta M92F.  
  
But the job was never done until the enemy was dead, lifeless on the floor underneath him. The guard as well as McNeil was thinking this, but the guard's fear for his life practically shut down his motor skills. He fumbled with his gun as he tried to defend himself against an attack from McNeil that he knew was coming. He finally had his gun in position, pointed at McNeil, shaking as if there were an earthquake beneath his feet. However, he soon found that McNeil was a step ahead. He already had his pistol pointed at the guard; he could look down the barrel and almost see the bullet that was about to rob him of his life.  
  
"No...please, have mer-"  
  
His plea for compassion was cut off by the sound of a gunshot; McNeil was obviously unaffected by the guard's request, being a man of no sympathy, caring for no one but himself. There was an almost blinding flash of the muzzle as the bullet was sent on a path of destruction towards the guard's exposed neck. The slug pierced the throat, cutting through the trachea, creating a bloody scene; the guard bent over in extreme pain, and the blood dropped from his neck wound like an intense rainfall. The expected scream or death rattle did not come from the guard, although his mouth was open, as if he was trying to scream, but could not no matter how hard he tried. The bullet had destroyed the trachea, the main source of oxygen for the human body. Without any breath, he could not utter a single word, let alone a scream.  
  
The guard clutched his bloodied neck in desperation; desperation to hold on to the few precious moments of life that he may have had left. They did not last long; his hand fell away from his throat, bloodied now as well, and he hit the floor hard, a lifeless heap. Only the first victim; the first of many.  
  
Now, eleven soldiers surrounded a very dangerous Jake McNeil. They obviously cared more about their own lives than their comrades, as they refused to jump in and save their partner from McNeil's wrath. Now, they wisely backed away, but not too far, barely giving him eight feet. Their M16s trained on him, shaking in the hands of the fear-stricken guard's. It was in their eyes, their body language...they were scared for their lives, like a rat trapped in a pit of cobras. And the cobra smelled warm blood.  
  
"Who dies next?" McNeil asked himself, looking into the eyes of each guard, looking for the weakest of the pack, the runt of the litter. His right hand was gripping his pistol, the trigger finger impatiently waiting to act...for a chance to pull the trigger-  
  
McNeil's keen ears suddenly picked up a sound. It was a silenced gunshot, not too far away. He knew that when a gun has a suppressor attached to it, it slows down the bullet significantly. This helped him avoid the flying steel, dodging it with the agility and speed that earned him the nickname "Hawk". The slug whizzed centimeters from his face with such a velocity that he could almost feel the wind from its course.  
  
The guard who just happened to be in the way of the round was too fear stricken to even hope to avoid it. It struck him right above his collarbone, hitting several arteries along the way, creating a shower of blood that spouted from his neck.  
  
The falling of their fellow squad member perplexed the remaining guards. They looked all around them for the perpetrator, asking questions to no one in particular.  
  
"What the hell was that?!"  
  
"Where did it come from?"  
  
"What the-- we gotta find who did it!"  
  
Suddenly, one of the guard's realized that McNeil was gone. Where he could've gone that fast, no one knew.  
  
"The intruder's escaped!"  
  
"Where'd he go?!"  
  
"Find that bastard!"  
  
The guards looked all around them, in every direction... except upwards. After all, how could he have possibly gotten anywhere above the ground level in that short of a time period? That was a question that only one person could answer. He was the lone figure sitting on top of the rafters, a good fifteen feet above the floor. He sat in a crouched position, stealthily watching his enemies from above, much like Godzilla watched the measly humans from his perch in the sky. Much like the people of Tokyo, the guards below didn't stand much of a chance against their giant opponent.  
  
The guards split up into groups of two and went in separate directions; McNeil, still watching the guards from the rafters, could only assume that they were looking for him. He searched around for his first victim. There was one guard, all alone, on an extremely thin catwalk. It would be a very extreme risk to jump from his position on the rafters to the catwalk, both because of distance and the little bit of space on which he had to land. But this was a man who took more risks than Evil Kinevil and Jackie Chan combined. Fear was not in his vocabulary. He got up and stood straight. He started running towards the catwalk, picking up speed, and leapt!  
  
He soared through the air like a bird; one might have thought that he was actually flying. He landed on the catwalk, right behind the guard, using his right palm to break the fall, so that his legs didn't absorb all of the impact. His landing was almost silent, but "almost" is the key word there. The guard heard the low sound of McNeil's boots on the metal floor, and turned around, his gun up, finger on the trigger.  
  
But McNeil was faster than the guard. He quickly slid under the rail and grabbed the edge of the catwalk floor, holding him up. It was a long fall to the floor, and he didn't know when the guard would turn back around, if he even would. Bad news. The guard didn't turn around. Instead, he decided, intelligently, to stay in that spot, and he turned around to look behind him every second. There was nowhere he could go without insuring death. If he went up on the catwalk, the guard would spot him; not even he was quick enough to get up and shoot the guard in the back before being discovered. And if he dropped to the floor, he'd undoubtedly break his legs, and then be killed, with no way to run or defend himself.  
  
Suddenly, an idea popped into his brilliant head. He let go of the catwalk floor with his right hand, and pulled out his pistol. This was very risky, as he only had his left hand, his weak hand at that, keeping him from falling. He craned his neck and looked at the guard and waited until the guard was looking in his direction. He lifted his pistol, and pulled the trigger, praying that the recoil wouldn't force him to lose his grip. It didn't, but the bullet missed, as the guard turned around and the slug whizzed by his head. The bullet pinged off of a rafter; coincidentally, the same one that he had been on. The guard looked up, reflexes getting the best of him. McNeil knew that he couldn't give the guard the chance to look down and see him. He quickly aimed his gun haphazardly, and pulled the trigger quicker than he wished he could have. However, the bullet still found its mark, going through the back of the guard's skull, and coming out on the other side, then dropping on the catwalk.  
  
The guard let out a scream that would wake the dead, and stumbled, death creeping up on him. He fell over the ledge; the body, blood stained, dropped past McNeil, onto the floor. A group of two guards heard it, and went over to investigate. One guard bent over by the body and placed two fingers on the fallen sentry's neck, checking for a pulse. He looked up at the other, standing soldier, and shook his head, a "he's dead" look on his face. The standing sentry spoke into his radio.  
  
"That bastard got another one! Dog tag reads Private Alexander Armour. Anderson, get an ID on him immediately! Everyone else, stay on high, tactical alert!"  
  
The one guard who had checked the deceased guard's pulse nodded his head, got up, and left the room. Four guards were out of the way now; eight were left.  
  
McNeil, still hanging, put his gun away in the holster on his waist, and did a chin up with both hands. He rolled up onto the catwalk, right before the two guards looked up to see where the body had come from. He remained on his chest, looking all around him. The guard now was alone, by himself. Ever so vulnerable. McNeil then noticed that he was also close to a dark corner; he could definitely use that to his advantage. He needed a ruse to get the guard to go into the corner. His mind was racking trying to come up with something, but nothing happened. That's when an idea was hatched. If it worked, he'd be home free. If it didn't, he'd lose a finger or two. He took a deep breath and got ready to put his plan to action.  
  
He placed his left hand underneath the floor of the catwalk and raised his gun, in his right hand, about four feet above the floor and pulled the trigger. The gun sped out of the barrel and towards the floor, penetrating it. The thickness, however, slowed it down so that McNeil could literally catch the round in his hand. He brought it back up and looked in his left palm to make sure it had not broken the skin. It hadn't, and he had a single bullet in his hand. Step one: completed.  
  
He put the bullet into his right hand and cocked it back, aimed towards the corner that the guard was standing near. He hurled the bullet, and it disappeared in the darkness of the corner. It made a high ping sound, which immediately caught the attention of the guard. He turned around and looked right into the dark corner. He knew that that was where the sound had come from, but was very reluctant to investigate. After all, it could have been a rat or something....or perhaps a careless intruder. He had no choice but to investigate the noise; it was the soldier's code of honor. He walked over, slowly, prepared, mentally and physically, for whatever could be in that corner. As he got closer, he realized that he needed another light source, as the corner would be far too dim to see. He flicked on the flashlight that was attached to the barrel of his assault rifle and went in the corner. Finding nothing after a rather thorough search, he let out a sigh of infinite relief and proceeded to go back on regular patrol duty. But he was being watched the entire time.  
  
McNeil was using the light emitting from the guard's torch to know where he was at all times in the shadowy corner. He placed his gun in a basic, fundamental position in both of his hands and carefully aimed at the guard's so vulnerable head area. A pull of the trigger sent a bullet of death to the guard's anatomy.  
  
One, nearby guard heard the victim's scream of agony from the corner. He looked over in time to see the guard's blood spilled from a wound so brutal that it traveled out of the dark corner, staining the adjacent wall. The grotesque sight put a look on the nearby sentry's face, a look of disgust, horror. He was speechless, not moving, although his feet were screaming for him to run. He knew that that was the intruder, and he was vulnerable; he might as well have had a sign over his head that read, "Shoot me". He snapped out of his stupor and decided to go investigate. Perhaps he could save his comrade; miracles are possible, after all.  
  
He slowly walked, knees shaking, towards the corner, his gun shaking more than his legs. He entered the ominous darkness, the gloom almost pulling him in. He unconsciously flicked on the flashlight on his gun, and saw a looming, portentous figure that radiated death with every single breath that he took.  
  
"No! Please... don't!" screamed the terrified guard. In a brawl that no one could see, the guard and McNeil duked it out for about three seconds. In the end, a sickening crack was heard from the corner, and a limp, twisted body was sent from the trap corner into an nearby wall, the corpse hitting the wall back first. There were no gunshot wounds, cuts or bruises, signs of usual murder methods. However, there was one rather revolting sight that would immediately tell any military connoisseur the killing process used to eliminate this guard. The neck was twisted in a seemingly impossible way to the left; there was no way anybody could survive an injury of that extent, and this guard was the proof.  
  
A tall, barely visible man walked out of the corner; his figure just screamed, "Don't **** with me". Suddenly, before even he knew what happened, three guards were around him, not wanting to get close to him after what he did to the other, formerly living guards.  
  
"I can see the fear in your eyes. Don't try to hide it. It's showing, rookies." There was about a five second stare down, the guards still very much afraid to approach McNeil. He was fighter, and he soon found himself getting frustrated. He let out a sigh and tried a new approach.  
  
"I'll make this even easier for you assholes," declared McNeil. He put his gun away and dropped both hands at his sides, not in any kind of orthodox fighting stance. Finally, much to McNeil's delight, the three guards rushed him roughly at the same time. He mentally timed the speeds of the sentries and found out which would one would get to him first. He gave that soldier a straight kick to the abdomen, knocking him on his back, the wind knocked out his system. He then faced one of the other two guards and delivered a fierce punch to his jaw, breaking it, no doubt. He was stopped in his tracks, in the middle of a rush towards McNeil, and immediately fell on his back, a small crack heard from the spine area. The last guard standing rushed at him, the bayonet that was attached to his gun gleaming in the light. McNeil gripped the gun in both hands and bent over slightly and tossed the guard over his back onto the floor. He then pointed the gun towards the guard whom he'd kicked at the beginning of the battle and let the shells fly to the soldier's abdomen. Several rounds penetrated his heart, cutting off life instantly. The guard whose jaw was broken by McNeil was still on the floor, prone, helpless. He threw the gun to the floor and headed towards the vulnerable soldier. However, the gun slid across the floor right to the guard whom he had flipped over his shoulder. Unbeknownst to McNeil, the guard slowly reached for the gun, little energy left in his body. He stood on one knee and aimed shakily at McNeil. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He looked at where the clip should be, and noticed that a different type of clip was inside, jamming it, not allowing a new clip to be put in. He cursed silently and got up, barely able to stand.  
  
Meanwhile, McNeil was standing over the other guard that was still breathing, but barely. He bent over and looked into the guard's eyes. If looks could kill, this soldier would be six feet under. McNeil's eyes had a look of something more evil than evil, something sicker, more sinister than that. It was unexplainable with words.  
  
He lifted up his boot and brought it down. It sunk viciously into the guard's neck, and the insides of his throat were grossly rearranged, large amounts of blood spurting out of his mouth like a fountain. He coughed, a sound like nothing anyone had heard before, blood coming up with every breath, making each more difficult. Eventually, the guard choked on his own blood, causing him to stop gagging abruptly. His mouth area was stained red, blood still dripping from his face to the floor.  
  
Two down, one to go.  
  
The other guard was about to toss the gun away, but he realized that he could also use it as a close quarters combat weapon. He got up and walked towards McNeil, the combat boots not making any sounds on the linoleum floor. McNeil's sixth sense suddenly kicked in; he knew that the guard was sneaking up on him. He waited for the right moment, on instinct only, and turned around. The guard swung down with the butt of his assault rifle. McNeil ducked the strike and delivered a body shot to the guard at the same time, his fist sinking into the stomach of the sentry. The guard doubled over and dropped the rifle, falling from his hands after the sudden, unexpected impact of McNeil's strike. A knee entered the guard's stomach now, causing him to drop on one knee, a kaleidoscope of pain searing through his abdomen. McNeil wasn't satisfied, however. He grabbed a knife from his one of the holders on his hip, the steel flashing, luminous under the light. He slipped it underneath the guard's stomach, and gutted the sentry; he essentially slit the abdomen, everything aside from the soldier's guts practically spilling out onto the floor. He fell in a pool of his own blood, yet another victim to the dangerous, psychotic Jake McNeil.  
  
"Huh? What- is there anybody there?" This was the question of a nearby guard. Apparently, he'd either faintly seen or heard the massacre. He walked over towards the carnage. McNeil took refuge behind a barrel that he assumed was full of chemicals. He peered around the side and observed the guard. He was kneeling next to one of the bodies, checking for a pulse. McNeil knew that he had to take action before backup was called for. He gripped a knife in his left hand and hurled it towards the guard. It bit into the sentry's leg like the bitter cold bites your skin, a stinging pain that one never forgets. The guard was in too much pain to scream, but he gritted his teeth and turned around to find the perpetrator. However, by this time, McNeil had shifted to the other side of the barrel so as to avoid detection. He pulled out a pistol and, unseen, shot the guard in the base of his skill, and he dropped to the floor, the body thudding against the linoleum, blood pouring into the air.  
  
Nine guards down, three to go.  
  
McNeil looked around him, for whoever would be his next prey. He saw a guard, stationary, looking to the left and right. Perfect. He walked up to him in a crouched, stealthy position and found himself right behind the guard, still undetected. Underneath the mask was an evil, sinister smile. He grabbed the guard in a violent chokehold, the guard struggling immediately, his screams silenced by a gloved hand over his mouth. It was a violent struggle between prey and predator, McNeil jerking the guard around like he was a rag doll. The guard was losing breath every second, but he continued to struggle, though his efforts would end up futile. Suddenly, the guard stopped struggling. He went from struggling to limp in about half a second. McNeil had crushed the sentry's windpipe, rendering him unconscious.  
  
Taking his hand off the soldier's mouth, McNeil unsheathed a knife and jammed it viciously into the guard's spine, breaking it in two. The guard was dead for sure now, and McNeil was satisfied. He threw the guard to the ground and walked away. Just two more guards left.  
  
He saw two guards on lookout, apparently. They had no patrol route, per se; they just looked in every direction for anybody that was a threat.  
  
McNeil found a small place where he could attack the guards without being seen, a dark corridor that he could barely fit his three hundred plus pound body into. He crouched and took out his pistol and aimed carefully. He pulled the trigger three times, and three shells went into the front of one of the guards' right leg; he was unable to stand and dropped onto one knee. He then dropped the pistol and drew a knife and launched it at the guard's neck, and it sank about one and a half inches into the guard's neck. It was a sickening sight, and the other guard looked down at his comrade, a look of more than shock on his face. His eyes were wide, a look of fear in them. He was making the most fatal mistake that any soldier could make. He was leaving himself vulnerable when he knew that there was an enemy nearby that was intent on killing him.  
  
He didn't have time to realize his slip up, as a bullet went through the side of his head, then coming out on the other side, penetrating the two- inch thick helmet. There was a hole in the helmet that had blood and brain tissue leaking out of it as the guard fell to the floor, lifeless.  
  
McNeil put away his gun and stood up. He looked at his work around the room. Twelve guards lay on the floor, bloody, unmoving. He smiled at his handiwork. They head felt his pain... and more. He went up the stairs to the battle taking place between Ghost and Raiden. He walked with a purpose; he was on his way to do something that should have been done a long time ago. 


	17. Chapter 17: An Alliance?

Chapter 17- An Alliance?  
  
Snake eyed the soldiers. They reminded him of what he thought a personification of death might look like, a black shadowy figure with red eyes that just screamed evil.  
  
Some were armed with 12-gauge shotguns; others were armed with FA-MAS rifles. Their hands were steady, not shaking, showing the probability that these men were true veterans. They meant serious business; you could tell just by looking at them.  
  
Snake's eyes may have been looking all around him, but his gun remained trained on the lead soldier, the red dot that was the laser sight playing on his heart area, but Snake knew better than to shoot. He was greatly outmatched, both in number and firepower. A single shot fired while Snake was out in the open would mean an instant salvo of shotgun and rifle shells that even he wouldn't be able to avoid; it would tear him apart instantaneously.  
  
Snake then took advantage of this momentary time of cease-fire, while both sides were waiting for the other to make the first move. He looked all around him for any possible cover. He saw the Metal Gear RAY, several crates, some cranes, a truck, and, of course, the structure from where he had come. Plenty of possible cover... he would need it.  
  
But what was closest to him? He looked around once more, trying to find a place that he could quickly escape to. He then spotted a large, steel crate about eight feet away from him. Perfect, along with all the wide-open space there was around him.  
  
Snake kept his gun trained on the enemy, not allowing anything to change that as long as he was breathing. He took his right hand off of the gun, however, and used it to reach for something on his hip. He gripped something in his gloved hand, and pried it off of the holster attached to his hip. It was a silver object, closely resembling a small soda can. It was slim and cylindrical, with a thin circular fixture on the top. It was something that any army personnel, rookie or veteran, should instantly recognize. It was a tactical diversionary tool... otherwise known as a flash bang grenade. It was a special type of explosive used to blind the enemy; it was a truly spectacular innovation.  
  
Snake then noticed something. None of the guards seemed to notice a lonely, stationary Scott. He was standing behind the all of the sentries, doing nothing whatsoever, not wanting to draw attention to himself. It was no wonder no one noticed him. Snake then looked at him, and Dolph reciprocated, their eyes meeting. Snake gave a slight nod of his head, and Dolph knew what he meant. Dolph slowly removed the sidearm from the holster; a slight grinned formed slowly on Snake's face as this happened. Scott trained his pistol on the lead sentry; the same one that Snake's 633 was focused on. He took his time, no kind of rushing even remotely necessary. He was a sniper from ten feet.  
  
The trigger was pulled back, sending a bullet into the guard's skull, killing him immediately. However, no blood flew.  
  
That's when Snake put Step Two of his plan into action. He, still only using his right hand, removed the pin from the flash bang grenade clutched in his right hand and tossed it into the air towards the enemy sentries. As soon as the grenade left his hand, Snake let out a barrage of gunfire from his 633. They all connected with the guards' chest areas, but none of them went down, and only a few showed a slight sensation of any kind of pain.  
  
He had actually thrown the grenade before Dolph fired his pistol, so that attention would immediately be drawn back to himself; Scott was in no condition to do any kind of fighting, as he had stated himself.  
  
The guards did indeed turn around towards Snake and the explosion... right into the blinding white light that the explosive released. The guards let out screams of pain, their eyes stinging beyond any kind of description.  
  
"Aahhh!"  
  
"Somebody help me!"  
  
"Find that--- aaahhh! My eyes!"  
  
Snake then heard automatic gunfire, followed by the scream of another guard. This could only mean two things; either someone Snake didn't know about was helping him, or the guards were killing each other.... by accident, of course. Snake didn't care which, as long as the other guys were dying. He thought nothing more of it and dove behind the large metal crate that he had eyed earlier. He completed a forward roll and pressed his back against the side of the crate, a stinging cold, like so many razor sharp blades, finding its way onto Snake's bare skin, where his suit had been torn so earlier before in his battle with Revolver Ocelot. Snake winced slightly, but shook it off, his natural soldier's resiliency kicking in.  
  
He then looked in the direction of the guards' last position and was able to view the trail of their thermal-imagery goggles, a steadily moving trail of red, easily visible. He also saw a vaguely visible silhouette in the distance. It was Scott, still standing in the open, an easy target.  
  
"Scott! Get out of here!"  
  
Dolph did not do as he was told, and hesitated to leave. He didn't move.  
  
"NOW!" yelled Snake, not angry, per se, just... concerned for his partner and friend's safety.  
  
He fired his gun in the general direction of their crimson tails, using burst fire, holding down the trigger for about two seconds at a time, never longer. He heard a rapid 'ping, ping' sound; he knew that the bullets had connected with something, most likely that strange armor that the sentries were wearing. Snake opened his ear, figuratively, and listened for a death rattle, a scream, anything that would tell Snake that he had dropped at least one guard... nothing, however.  
  
Snake then thought of something. The fact that Snake didn't recognize the armor that the sentries were wearing and the fact that he had connected point blank on at least three guards with the result being... well, nothing, were not coincidence. Snake was what one might call a "military connoisseur". He knew more about military equipment than any other soldier that he knew.  
  
He then decided to contact Otacon; he was one of the only people he knew that may have known more about this than he. He tapped the device in his inner ear slightly with his index finger. A ringing sound then chimed in his ear.  
  
"Snake, are you okay? The camera was malfunctioning and I got worried--"  
  
"That's exactly what I need to talk to you about. Otacon, can you see what's happening right now?"  
  
"Well, I was able to, up until... I believe you had that battle with Ocelot in the, uh, the computer room. It malfunctioned about halfway into the fight. I was really worried about you, I had no idea what had happened."  
  
Otacon had actually installed a small camera inside Snake's bandana. This allowed him to view everything through Snake's eyes, the vantage point perhaps a little higher, as it was on Snake's forehead.  
  
"Uh... yeah, I was... uh... out of bandages," Snake said, rather embarrassed.  
  
"You used your bandana as a bandage?" Otacon rhetorically asked. Only ---!" Otacon let out a surprised gasp, shock under the glasses that continually slid down his nose. Without what he dubbed the "Snake Cam" functioning properly, Otacon had to rely solely on Snake's voice and the sounds around him to help his comrade. However, he couldn't hear anything any longer, as gunshots and static rang in his ears, drowning out Snake's voice entirely on the codec. Otacon gathered himself and spoke into his codec, still on, as far as he knew.  
  
"Snake?" he spoke into the codec, the concern for his partner obvious from his tone of voice. "Snake...? Snake, answer me! Snake! SNAKE!" He got no response whatsoever. Just yelling and the echoes of the gunshots fired. He silently prayed that Snake was fully capable of answering, but couldn't.  
  
It turned out that Snake was still alive. He had been flushed out of his hiding spot while conferring with Otacon. Several grenades had been thrown in his direction as he was consulting with his partner; he had not seen them, and he was pissed off at himself for that alone. He had not noticed them until about half a second before they'd detonated. He stood up and sprinted towards one the helicopters that had been utterly destroyed, the first veritable cover option he'd spotted on the spur of the moment.  
  
However, the second he stood, the grenades detonated, releasing a fairly weak fragmentation explosion, the blast not even knocking Snake off of his feet. The Philanthropy commando did, however, lose his balance briefly; he stumbled, but kept running, adrenaline pumping at the max.  
  
Gunfire hurtled by his skull, hair literally being knocked off the top of his head by the slugs. The only thing that kept him from getting his brain tissue blasted out of his cranium was the fact that he lowered his head and crouched slightly... a veteran move by a veteran soldier. Nonetheless, several bullets still nicked his arms and legs, the soldiers against him showing their veteran skills, trying to incapacitate Snake's vital body parts. With an injured arm or hand, Snake would not be able to fire his gun, and with wounded legs, he'd be unable to walk.  
  
But this did not slow Snake down; he continued to run towards the helicopter, the large mechanical structure seeming to get farther away with every step that he took. Automatic gunfire rang in his ears, but he tried his best to ignore it, concentrating only on reaching his goal... which he finally did, after what seemed like an eternity.  
  
He crouched and leapt, a powerful headfirst swan dive over the tail of the Russian chopper, something he may not have been able to do under normal circumstances, the boost of his adrenaline greatly assisting him. The gunfire followed him, connecting with the tail of the chopper, barely missing their target.  
  
Snake somehow landed on one knee right after completing his spectacular jump, and pressed his back against the outside of the mechanical bird, right next to where the door used to be. He reloaded his gun, and rethought his options. Grenades, at least flash bangs, had no effect on them, his gun was useless, and hand-to-hand was not an option in this scenario. He had no other types of grenades... in fact, that was his last grenade at all. He was knee deep in his fate, almost defenseless.  
  
Suddenly, he heard something he wasn't sure that he had. He thought that he heard a 'whoosh' of a speeding object coming towards him. Indeed he had; something was coming at him, and fast. Snake was now prepared to take the ultimate gamble. It sped over the top of the chopper's roof. Without moving anything but his right arm, he raised his hand and caught whatever was coming at him. It was thrown so hard that it stung his hand, but he lived with it... it could have done a lot worse. He brought it down in front of his eyes. It turned out to be a not-yet-activated grenade, and Snake could tell by the four-letter code on the round object that it was a poison gas grenade.  
  
It had to have been Dolph who'd aided the desperate and almost defenseless soldier. Snake wished that he could show his comrade his thanks, but he'd be risking his life doing that... it wouldn't be the smartest move he'd ever made.  
  
Snake had new life now. He looked through the doorway of the helicopter and saw that the guards had just finished reloading and started firing again. He ducked back behind cover, almost getting hit.  
  
Sweat was running down his brow, and he wiped the nervous perspiration off, his hand shaking from the near-death moment he'd just experienced.  
  
He then knew what he was going to do. He got ready, taking a deep breath, and readying himself. He then carried on with his plan, as he pointed the barrel of his 633 through the doorway of the bird and pulled the trigger, "blindfiring", not really intending to hit anyone, but to just force the enemy on the defensive, making them duck to avoid the gunfire. He then stood as he heard the frustrated groans of the soldiers as his bullets got near them and readied his grenade, removing the pin and throwing it into the snow at his feet. He tossed it through the doorway of the chopper, the small green object racing towards a soldier's head, smacking his skull and detonating on impact. He was knocked back about a foot, and the grenade released a thick cloud of white phosphorous. It would have severely burned any unprotected person instantly... but these soldiers were not unprotected.  
  
Snake now noticed that they guards were wearing gas masks that protected them from the dangerous gas that he had just used on them. The only thing that helped Snake in this situation was the fact that, for a moment, the guards could not see. Snake took advantage and made a run for it... "it" being the Metal Gear RAY.  
  
He raced towards the gargantuan mechanical monster; it was behind the guards who were temporarily blinded. He was taking a great risk, but the possible benefit was greater than the gamble. If he succeeded, he'd be behind every single enemy, and they wouldn't even know it. If he didn't make it, he'd be hailed down in a barrage of automatic gunfire and shotgun blasts.  
  
It turned out that he would make it to the Metal Gear, and find save haven behind its left leg. He spied the guards, and after about five seconds, they recovered from being momentarily blinded, and immediately looked at Snake's former position, behind the chopper. They looked for about two seconds, and opened fire without delay.  
  
Shotgun shells and rifle fire filled the night air, connecting to the helicopter, destroying it, shells denting the metal. When they didn't get any return fire, they decided to investigate. They walked over, slowly, cautiously, not wanting to fall into a trap of any kind. They surrounded the bird, seven of them on one side, and six on the other. They crept up on where they thought that Snake was, and all pointed their guns in unison... at nothing.  
  
They were confused at the situation. Where could he have gone that fast? Nonetheless, they reacted quickly, silently giving each other directions on where to go, so no one could overhear, using hand signals to do so. When they were done telling each other what to do, they broke into several different units. Four of them went past the helicopter, four more towards the building, and the last five went towards the Metal Gear. Snake's heart beat harder and faster every as they came closer. His time was running out; he needed to think of a plan. He rushed to activate his codec, to contact Otacon. He needed his advice now more than ever.  
  
"Otacon, can you hear me?" Snake said in a low voice.  
  
However, Otacon did not hear him. He only heard "Ot--- he--- ---e?" He responded to Snake, but it came out garbled and not understandable.  
  
"I--- ---ake! ---ay!"  
  
"Damn it!" Snake yelled, obviously frustrated.  
  
The guards were coming closer every second. Snake stood and walked in a crouch position towards the front of the other leg. The guard's pointed their rifles downward and opened fire, obviously hearing him, but only hit snow, nothing more. Three of them then walked behind the monster of a machine, and the other two stood, playing lookout. Snake could hear the crunching of their boots on the snow as they came towards him. He sighed, and decided on what he'd do.  
  
He jumped out of his hiding spot and opened fire on the guards, surprising them. A good number of his shots connected with the guards' bodies, except for a couple that strayed out of their direction. Snake jumped back into his hiding spot, but then he heard a loud, earth-shaking explosion.  
  
"What the hell?" Snake yelled to himself.  
  
He went back around and looked in the direction of where he thought that the explosion had come from. His eyes widened at the sight that he observed. Both guards that were acting as lookouts, on the ground, small fires burning on their backs. The other three guards were next to their comrades, trying to figure out what happened, just as Snake was.  
  
That's when Snake first saw it. On the guard's back was some kind of cubical object, most likely having something to do with the gas masks that they were wearing. Snake then decided to test out what he thought had happened.  
  
He trained his 633 on the back of the nearest guard, the laser sight steady on the cubical object. He let out a burst of gunfire, and each bullet connected. The second they did, there was an explosion, and a fire broke out on the guard's back. He was knocked off of his feet, immediately knocked unconscious, as was the soldier standing next to him. However, one sentry was still standing and turned around to face Snake. He met a knife blade right between his eyes, courtesy of Snake. Underneath his mask, the guard's eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled, falling to the ground. Snake walked over to him and grabbed the grip of the knife, forcing it out of his victim's forehead.  
  
"I'll take that," Snake told the guard, his face expressionless. Snake then searched the singed bodies for anything useful. He found several fragmentation grenades, but nothing else that would be useful to him. He pocketed the explosives and took out his assault rifle, the 633.  
  
He searched his pockets for a fresh clip, as the current one was low. However, no new clips were to be found.  
  
"Damn," Snake said to himself. He decided against using his 633, holstered it on his back, and took his Beretta out of its holster. He removed the current magazine and jammed a fresh one in its place. He clutched his gun in both hands and slowly walked towards the chopper, where he knew a group of soldiers were, looking for the enemy, the intruder... him.  
  
He reached the helicopter, and peered through the doorway. He saw four guards, looking in every which direction. He readied his Beretta and pointed the barrel through the doorway. The laser sight radiated ahead in the night horizon, steadily moving, Snake trying to find his aim, taking his time. It finally stopped, targeted on the newly found Achilles' heel of the seemingly unstoppable sentries, the cubical device on their back that was filled with who knew what. The Beretta's trigger was pulled back, and the single bullet that came out of the barrel sped toward the strange piece of equipment on the guard's back. It reached it in a matter of half a second and penetrated the apparatus, igniting whatever was inside, and thus causing a tremendous explosion. The blast knocked every guard in the area off of his feet. When the smoke cleared, every soldier was face down in the snow, motionless, either unconscious or dead. It didn't matter to Snake, as long as they were no longer a threat.  
  
He turned around, ready to find the last four sentries, and did... all of them, the barrels of their guns pointed at Snake's head. And, in front of them, arms crossed, was Scott Dolph... 


	18. Chapter 18: Rebel With A Cause

Chapter 18- Rebel With a Cause  
  
*NOTE: THIS BATTLE IS TAKING PLACE AT THE SAME TIME AS THE "McNEIL v. GUARD TEAM BATTLE*  
  
Ghost opened the battle by unloading a clip at Raiden's head, squeezing the trigger on both of his PT945s with more than enough force to send a salvo of silver bullets at Jack's skull. Jack was quick to react, however, unsheathing his blade and placing the steel between the slugs and his head. The rounds pinged against the metal as Raiden shifted the angle of his sword, following the bullets. It created a spark show on the sword, small flashes of light going as quickly as they came on the blade every time a bullet connected against the steel. It caused a vibration that went from the blade to the grip and right down to Jack's hands, causing them to go numb for several seconds.  
  
Ghost chuckled at the sight of Raiden's blade proficiency.  
  
"What's so damn funny?" Raiden asked, unaware of the mind games going on between the two.  
  
Ghost refused to answer Jack's question, however. He simply continued his sinister laughter, frustrating Raiden even more.  
  
"You know, Jack, I have a philosophy... one that you might share. I've always believed that everyone that is put on this Earth is put on this Earth... for a reason. This makes for three different types of people.  
  
"Some people find their purpose, their reason for even being alive, and accomplish it. They are content that they can go to their grave knowing that they've done what they needed to for their world.  
  
"Others may find out why they were put on this Earth... but they don't accomplish what they know they need to do for their world. These people usually kill themselves in the process of trying to reach their final destination, that goal... they reach for it, but eventually, finally fall short.  
  
"And still others, Jack, wander their lives, blind as bats, never knowing what they're here for. These people are an obvious waste to society... they disgust me. Nothing but mindless drones... insects, even. They need to be eliminated... they are useless.  
  
"Watch, and learn, Jack..."  
  
Ghost kept his eyes on Raiden but used his left hand to aim a single PT945 at a random guard's head below. Raiden looked on the level below. The sentries, about eleven of them, surrounded Raiden's ally, Jake McNeil, although it seemed that none of them had the intestinal fortitude to make a first move. Raiden also noticed a downed guard; his riot shield was destroyed, in numerous pieces around his body, and was blood leaking from the sentry's neck.  
  
No wonder no one wants to go against this guy... Raiden thought.  
  
Raiden looked back at Ghost, who still had his gun pointed point-blank at the same guard. He pulled the trigger back and the bullet traveled at near light speed towards an unaware guard.  
  
The bullet almost struck McNeil in the back of his skull (though Ghost was not aiming for him; he was aiming for the guard), but he was able to quickly dodge it at the last possible moment. It whizzed by him and struck a vulnerable guard right above his collarbone, blood spurting everywhere from the large wound.  
  
The guard dropped instantly, yet no other sentries made any attempt to help him. If any of them had, they'd be sitting ducks for McNeil. They did conversate among themselves, however, trying to figure out who did it, caught off guard.  
  
Jack looked back at Ghost, mouth agape in shock, anger in his eyes.  
  
"Those people trust you! How could you possibly do that?!" Raiden yelled.  
  
Ghost just reiterated his evil, sinister laugh, the sound echoing all around the room.  
  
"Yes, Jack, they do trust me. But do you know why? Because I'm at the top of the ladder, I am one of the few people who have found their life purpose. People like me are rare in this world.  
  
"But, they... they are the ones who follow people like me. They are the ones who know no life goal, a helpless follower. They are the parasites that infect this society. They have no purpose to me... they have no purpose, except to be killed.  
  
"Now, Jack, you need to ask yourself this question: what kind of person are you? A helpless follower, someone who has no clue why they're here? A toy, a pawn... a puppet, with society pulling the strings.  
  
"Or perhaps you know your life goal. But, if you do, you need to ask yourself something. Have you achieved it? And more importantly, if you haven't..."  
  
Ghost then caught Raiden off guard and pointed the barrel of his gun at his head before Jack could even react.  
  
"...Will you survive to achieve that goal, whatever it may be?"  
  
Jack let out a scream of rage and pulled out his M4 and proceeded to let out a barrage of bullets at his nemesis. Ghost simply smiled that evil smile of his and holstered his gun. He leapt into the air, executing a flawless backflip. The rounds missed him completely, streaming underneath his leather-clad back, hitting the wall directly behind him.  
  
The wall behind him prevented Ghost from completing his back flip (that is, landing on the floor), as the soles of his combat boots gripped the cement. Ghost decided to use this to his advantage, and pushed off of the wall, successfully performing a corkscrew flip over Jack's head. He could literally feel the heat of Raiden's gunfire as it barely missed him.  
  
He landed on his feet behind Raiden, unharmed, facing him. He immediately brought out one of his PT945s and put it up against the back of Raiden's skull, imitating a hold-up. However, Jack did not put his hands up in response. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly in his strong grasp; he had taken it out after putting his M4 away while Ghost was in the air above his head. He turned around with his instinctive quickness, giving a hard upward thrust.  
  
Ghost responded by moving his upper body backwards ad slightly to his right. He fired blindly from his single PT945, letting loose several bullets in Jack's direction, none of which came close to connecting.  
  
The steel of Jack's blade zinged past his collar area, cutting it on Ghost's left, creating a large gap and exposing his neck. Jack took this opportunity to attack Ghost with his close-quarters-combat expertise. He struck his foe's jaw with a double roundhouse kick, both his left and right boot smashing against the bone in Ghost's face, nearly snapping it in two.  
  
Ghost stumbled back, his hand instinctively reaching up to his face where the kick had connected. A searing pain covered the left side of his face; he wasn't sure if his jawbone was in one piece or not. Regardless, he continued the battle like any soldier would, recovering and facing his opponent.  
  
Ghost then brought both of his pistols to bear and fired both guns until his clip the two clips were completely empty. They flew with an intense velocity at Raiden's chest area, most aimed at the left side. He was quick to place his blade near his upper body, rotating it appropriately at a lightning fast speed to repel the rounds. He succeeded, and not a single round got past the steel frame of Jack's sword.  
  
He then attempted an attack on his foe, a hard thrust, a lunge that connected to Ghost's abdomen. He groaned and bent over, nearly dropping to one knee in pain. Jack noticed that he had a strange smile on his face. A sign of satisfaction of his actions. He knew that he was turning into something... something that they wanted him to be.  
  
Nevertheless, Raiden decided to attempt an upward strike with his sword, one from the left to the right. It was an exceptionally hard swing, and Jack knew that he had made a mistake when Ghost suddenly got up from his crouch. He had been playing possum, and Raiden had fallen right into his hand.  
  
He dodged Jack's attack by ducking to his right, and Jack's blade went diagonally to the right, hitting nothing but air. Jack had swung so vigorously that he almost lost his grip on the hilt.  
  
Ghost then, after avoiding Raiden's attack, delivered a series of body shots to Jack's abdomen, finishing off with a stiff right hook to his jaw, sending Raiden stumbling several steps back.  
  
Jack dropped to one knee, the wind knocked out of his system from the fierce body shots. He groaned and held his stomach, a sinking feeling taking over.  
  
"Had enough, yet, Jack?" taunted Ghost, still playing mind games. He slowly walked over to his opponent, arrogance in his stride.  
  
Jack then abruptly charged at Ghost, tackling his foe. They both crashed into the near wall, an intensely loud 'crack!' easily heard when the two collided with the wall. The impact had created a large, crater-like hole in the concrete, thin cracks surrounding it.  
  
Both combatants dropped to the floor; Ghost had taken the brunt of the impact, but Jack absorbed some of it as well. Raiden was face first on the ground, barely breathing, and his adversary laid face up, eyes closed underneath the dark sunglasses.  
  
It would appear that neither one of the fighters would be getting up any time soon. But then, seemingly out of nowhere, Ghost started to stir slightly... it wasn't a bad start. He slowly rose to his feet, breathing heavily, gasping for oxygen. He looked down at Raiden; he wasn't close to standing. Ghost readied one of his two PT945s, prepared to finish the job.  
  
He pointed the gun at Jack's forehead, finger on the trigger, when he noticed that Jack was starting to get up as well. He put his gun away, looking down at Jack, who was struggling to get up.  
  
"This is pathetic, Jack." It was doubtful that Raiden could even hear Ghost's words; he barely knew where he was. He crawled over towards his opponent and then reached out, his hand stretching for some sort of support. He grabbed a handful of Ghost's jacket, pulling himself up.  
  
Ghost looked down at the defenseless Raiden and let out a slight chuckle. He bent over slightly and grabbed Jack's M4, which he'd dropped earlier. He held it above the barrel with his right hand and below the butt with his left. He cocked it back past his waist and slammed the butt into Jack's ribs, dropping him immediately. He fell to the floor, on his already- injured rib cage. A blazing, ripping pain tore through his abdomen as he desperately gasped for air, coughing up blood every time his barely-beating heart pumped.  
  
Ghost threw Jack's gun to his floor and then reached, once again, for his gun, but decided against it, again. He decided to watch the probably pathetic show that his guards were putting on, fighting against McNeil, the one-man army. He was right. His sentries were being dominated by the man codenamed "Hawk".  
  
Ghost scoffed and turned back towards Raiden while silently, and reluctantly, deciding to help his allies... after he was done with his current opponent.  
  
Jack was still helpless on the floor, unmoving, however. Ghost used his left hand to grab him by his long hair and lifted him up. Raiden was no more than dead weight, a limp, almost-lifeless mass. He slammed him up against the wall and the back of Raiden's skull smashed viciously against it.  
  
Ghost stared into the eyes of his former ally, cold hatred in them. He then removed his sunglasses with his right hand and threw them clear across the room. He heard the 'ping' as they bounced across the tile floor, but did not turn towards the noise, keeping his eyes on Jack. He laughed in Jack's face, his voice level growing louder and louder every second until he was almost screaming. It was no "ha, ha," someone-just-cracked-a-funny-joke laugh... this was a chill-runs-up-your-spine-when-you-hear-it laugh. He was demented, ruthless... there wasn't anything that he wouldn't do in this situation.  
  
He took out his own gun, the PT945, and jammed the barrel into Jack's skull suit, on his left. A pull of the trigger would send a slug right through Jack's heart.  
  
"Jack... can you hear me, Jack? Do you know what could happen if I pulled this trigger? All my misery, all my stress that was caused by you could easily be avenged.  
  
"You don't know how long the wait has been, Jack, for this very moment. I need to savor it, value this instant. After all, this can only happen once, right Jack?"  
  
Then, Ghost suddenly heard the sound of heavy footsteps. He turned around and found that the loud, stampede like footsteps came from McNeil's size sixteen boots.  
  
Ghost let go of Jack's hair, dropping him to the floor. He stared at McNeil and vice versa. Both slowly reached for their respective weapons, Ghost for his dual PT945s and McNeil for his medium-length knife.  
  
McNeil charged at Ghost, who stood with an arrogant smirk on his face. He bent his knees, and leapt as the battle began... 


	19. Chapter 19: Reality Check

Chapter 19- Reality Check  
  
Dolph's sight was trained on Snake, his cold-as-ice eyes burning a hole in his soul, piercing his heart. The Philanthropy commando reciprocated, instigating a stare down. No sounds whatsoever could be heard outside of the strong winds and one soldier cocking his FA-MAS. Both Snake and Scott stood their ground, waiting for the other to speak up, until Snake broke the deafening silence.  
  
"So... you're behind this?" asked Snake, not expecting an answer.  
  
"Snake... did you really think that blowing up the Tanker would get rid of me... or should I say, 'us'?"  
  
Snake thought about Dolph's statement. He remembered back to 2009, the Tanker incident:  
  
*Snake was still hidden from everyone's view behind a tall, steel structure in Metal Gear RAY's holding chamber. He watched the scene from afar; Revolver Ocelot was standing on top of the stage, the Marines all with their gun barrels pointed directly at him. They were hesitant to shoot, however, because of the fact that Ocelot's partner, Sergei Gurlukovich, was holding their leader, Commandant Scott Dolph, hostage temporarily. Sergei had a small pistol barrel jammed into the side of the Marines' leader, while Ocelot held a large device with a single button on it in his left hand. Gurlukovich had a pissed-off look on his face from the events that had unfolded just minutes earlier.  
  
"...Mother Russia can rot for all I care," declared Ocelot.  
  
"Since when, Ocelot! When did you turn?!" demanded Gurlukovich.  
  
"I'm glad you noticed, comrade. I abandoned 'her' during the Cold War."  
  
"Arrgh!"  
  
"Metal Gear only has room for one! Gurlukovich, you and your daughter will die here!"  
  
"Damn you!" screamed an enraged Sergei. He pushed his hostage forward, and Scott stumbled from the sudden force on his back. At the same time, Ocelot removed his large, brown coat and tossed in into the air, blocking him from Sergei's view.  
  
"Die, you dog!" Sergei screamed at Ocelot, pointing his weapon at his ally turned foe. Ocelot, with cat-like speed, drew his revolver and aimed it at Sergei, pulling the trigger six times, cocking the hammer back after each. Four slugs sailed through Ocelot's coat and were intercepted by the body of the Commandant, easily cutting through his chest. However, two of the rounds went past Dolph and hit Sergei square in the heart, drawing blood.  
  
Sergei also fired his weapon, and, once again, Scott's body intercepted them, and his back was drilled full of holes.  
  
Gurlukovich and Dolph both dropped to the floor, screaming in pain, barely hanging onto life.  
  
"Sergei... looks like you were long overdue for retirement." Ocelot dropped his gun as he taunted his foe.  
  
"Traitorous dog..." were Sergei's last words before dying; Dolph, however, said nothing before expiring.*  
  
Snake shook his head slightly, a puzzled look on his face. Scott was there... how did he not know that it was indeed Ocelot who had blown up the Tanker? And who exactly was this "us" that Dolph referred to?  
  
"But no more talk is necessary from here," announced Dolph. "Take him."  
  
At Dolph's command, the soldiers took action. One soldier went immediately behind Snake and slapped a pair of strong, steel handcuffs on his wrists, constricting his movement. Two other soldiers stood at either of Snake's sides, their guns ready and aimed, gun in one hand, the other on their two- way radios in case backup was needed. The last soldier stood next to Dolph, acting as lookout, making sure that no one was going to attack his leader.  
  
Snake struggled in the handcuffs, jerking his wrists back and forth, groaning slightly as he resisted against the cuffs. The same soldier that had put the handcuffs on Snake jammed the barrel of his FA-MAS into Snake's spine, moving him along. They all followed Scott to a building, a dome, separate from the main structure. It was small, almost like a separate room... just a single room. They all entered, Snake in the very back, his face blank, expressionless.  
  
The room was also blank, a mere white-walled room, nothing in it. It was completely empty, nothing occupying an inch of the room. Snake looked around, eyeing the other soldiers, when he saw something that made him blink the second that he saw it. Every soldier, even Dolph, suddenly dematerialized in the air, disappearing gradually from the legs up.  
  
Snake's eyes widened when he'd seen what could only be called a phenomenon. Everyone was unexpectedly gone, and Snake had no idea why, or how to make sense of it.  
  
He reached out with his left hand to where on of the soldiers was standing; the only part of his being left was his upper body as he slowly dematerialized. However, the soldier was quickly no more before Snake hand reached him, or it.  
  
That's when Snake recalled. The handcuffs... no longer latched onto his wrists.  
  
'What the hell is this?! VR?!' thought Snake, his thoughts screaming.  
  
"It could be VR, Snake," said a disembodied voice that seemingly came from nowhere. Snake, startled, drew his 633 on instinct and looked around the room, his eyes searching everywhere, but finding nothing. Had this... voice read his mind?  
  
"Or is it merely another part of the illusion that you call... your life?"  
  
"My life is real!"  
  
"Oh, really? As real as the soldiers that just captured you? Scott?"  
  
Snake was beaten with that question. He knew that Scott and the soldiers couldn't possibly have been real. He could do nothing more, except listen to the voice.  
  
"Snake, everyone has their own opinions of reality and illusion. Everyone has a line that separates the two... yours is slowly blurring, and will eventually be no more.  
  
"How can you be sure, Snake, that anything is real anymore? Have your many victories against the likes of Fox-Hound, the Sons of Liberty and Black Chamber been real... or just more illusions? You believe that each victory was real... genuine. Once again, you buy into that illusion known as 'life'.  
  
"You may even believe that you can defeat me. But tell me... how can you stop something that you're not even sure exists? How do you know for sure that I am real?  
  
"Shadow Moses... the Big Shell... illusions lived over and over. The same nightmares, back-to-back, Snake. Yet you continue to buy into it.  
  
"Snake, you and everyone else are the same. You see only two things: what you want to see and what you're forced to see. The only thing real about your life is the illusion that it is.  
  
"You can make people see anything you wish them to, you see. That is what gives me strength. Your credulity is what empowers me."  
  
At this point, Snake was getting angry and frustrated with whoever, or whatever this was. His gun pointed in every direction, the trigger just waiting to be pulled.  
  
"Who are you?! Show yourself!" Snake yelled to anyone that might hear.  
  
"Does it matter, Snake? What does anything matter if you're not sure of its existence?"  
  
"Who are you?!" yelled Snake once more.  
  
"As far as I am concerned, I have no name, Snake. Names only make things seem more genuine, realer than they actually are. However, you may call me by the only relevant name that I've ever had, the one given to me by the Leaders... 'Arcane'."  
  
Snake then picked up the faint sound of footsteps behind him and immediately turned toward the noise. He noticed a tall figure, definitely a male, and easily well over 200 pounds. The man donned a full body suit, blue and white in color. It had many regions, on his forearms, shins and shoulders, which looked to be made of a steel alloy. Each had a small region, down the middle, where a bright white neon pulse flashed on and off monotonously, about as fast as a person's heartbeat.  
  
He also sported an unusual-looking accessory over his heart region. It appeared to be a type of jewel, remaining in place thanks to two steel bands that went diagonally down both sides of his torso, forming an upside- down "V" on his chest. It also pulsed a bright white, at the same rate as the other regions.  
  
Underneath the steel regions was a full, silver neoprene body suit, not leaving a single part of his body uncovered.  
  
He also wore a helmet, blue in color, with a visor shielding his face, white in tint. He appeared to be carrying no weapons.  
  
Snake immediately turned his attention towards the sound of Arcane's footsteps. He drew his Colt 633 and aimed it at the visored head of the stranger. He could clearly see a reflection of himself in the visor, staring into his own eyes.  
  
Arcane then spoke up, once again trying to get into Snake's head.  
  
"Tell me, Snake, can any of this be real? All that we've worked for, only to be defeated by you time and time again? The only possible explanation is that it's all an illusion.  
  
"You were the first of their illusions. They needed to rid themselves of you. Which is why they... recruited us. They required a bit of reality to make the illusion real.  
  
"Isn't it fitting, Snake, that we give you your own set of illusions to live for your entire life?"  
  
Snake then expressed his frustration by letting loose a round of slugs from his assault rifle at his foe, pulling the trigger back until he heard a 'click, click, click' indicating the need of a new clip. He looked at his target after the smoke had cleared, and his eyes widened in amazement. His opponent simply stood there, not a scratch on his large frame.  
  
'The bullets had to have gone through him,' Snake thought, since the spent rounds were on the other side of his enemy. He was shocked, not believing what he thought that he was seeing.  
  
His weapon remained drawn as he slowly, hesitantly decided to walked towards Arcane; however, the second he brought down his right foot, a searing pain shot through his abdomen. It was far too much for Snake, let alone any human being to handle, and Snake dropped to one knee in agony. His weapon skidded across the floor, landing in front of Arcane, though he appeared not to notice it.  
  
"Why fight the pain, Snake?" Arcane asked. "It's just another illusion."  
  
"Aghh... my stomach... on fire!" groaned Snake, in obvious pain.  
  
"Yes. It feels that way, doesn't it?"  
  
"The pain. Must... fight it. So real."  
  
Snake then reached for his weapon, the 633 laid out in front of Arcane. He looked down at his weakened foe. Snake's hand extended to grab the weapon from the floor. He soon found, however, that he was incapable of lifting it! The gun seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, thus making it impossible to pick up.  
  
"No... just another illusion..." Snake told himself.  
  
Another pain then shot through Snake's abdomen, and he collapsed on the floor out of sheer agony. He remained unmoving for a great length of time; illusion or not, the pain had defeated him. 


	20. Chapter 20: A Hidden Agenda

Chapter 20- A Hidden Agenda  
  
A tense grip tightened on his Machete, McNeil took a step forward and swung the blade from his right to his left, aiming to cut open Ghost's abdomen. The swing was strong and vigorous, but still maintained coordination and balance.  
  
The steel swung through the air with scary velocity, and Ghost knew that he had to act quickly if he wanted his insides to say on the inside. Both of his twin pistols found their way into their respective hip holsters with haste. The Trinity mercenary then dropped onto his back, dodging the flying blade, McNeil only connecting with the air around him.  
  
The masked warrior had to be quick, as he knew that he didn't have time to holster his Machete; his foe was far too swift. He then shifted his Machete into his left hand, holding it as if it were a knife, and modified his stance into one that used one-handed boxing.  
  
The stance was rather awkward, and was thus rarely used, as most regarded it as ineffective. His right hand would have to be used to block his right and left side and to deliver punches as well. It was rather unorthodox, making it difficult to master, perhaps even impossible to some. But Jake McNeil was a man who made the impossible possible.  
  
Ghost regained his balance and swung hard at McNeil, a right hook that wanted to break his chin into many, many pieces. McNeil's right forearm came in between his own chin and Ghost's clenched fist, blocking the blow. The Patriots soldier then responded with three lightning-fast punches; first, two jabs to the face, almost breaking his opponent's nose. He then finished off with a strong right hook that sent Ghost stumbling backward. His knees buckled, and he had to struggle to stay on his feet.  
  
The masked warrior immediately deposited his Machete in its holder on his back and drew two throwing knives. The metal gleamed in the bright light before he proceeded to throw them with great speed towards his foe, aimed to go right between his eyes.  
  
Ghost then executed a backflip to dodge the steel, barely avoiding having his brain tissue end up on the wall behind him, the knives passing mere centimeters underneath his back. His boots gripped the cement wall behind him, and he then complete a forward flip, landing in the position in which he had started.  
  
The knives, meanwhile had harmlessly hit the wall, striking it in a manner similar to the way lightning strikes a tall tree.  
  
McNeil then intended to shatter Ghost's chin, as he had been trying to do, with a vigorous right uppercut. Ghost simply leaned to the left, much like a professional boxer and completely dodged the blow.  
  
After he successfully made McNeil miss, however, he felt an awful stinging in his jaw area. McNeil had quickly rebounded off of the missed punch and dealt a forearm blow to the Trinity mercenary. He spun around towards the wall from the impact and was forced several feet backwards, towards the wall.  
  
Ghost was, however, able to maintain his balance, and continued in the direction in which he was drove, using his forward momentum, and the wall behind him, to his advantage. He ran towards the wall and leapt off of the floor. His boots gripped the cement and he pushed off, back toward his opponent. He completed a 180-degree spin and extended his right foot, aiming to nail McNeil in the jaw with a powerful kick.  
  
McNeil rather easily dodged the blow, merely ducking underneath the strike, and planned his next attack.  
  
The masked warrior knew what was going to happen next. It would take several seconds for Ghost to recover from the missed attack, to get his poise back, which would leave him open for an easy attack.  
  
McNeil's clenched fist cocked back while his opponent was doing exactly what he had predicted for the exact amount of time that he had predicted. Five knuckles impacted against Ghost's chin, sending him staggering against the wall behind him, his vertebrate almost snapping in two.  
  
Ghost quickly reacted and rebounded against the wall, rushing right into McNeil's next attack, a powerful right hook that aimed to finish the Trinity mercenary off. He simply leaned to his left to dodge the blow, much to his foe's chagrin. Ghost then dove in that same direction, acting on instinct only now. The Trinity mercenary completed a forward roll past his opponent and stood immediately, behind his opponent; the two warriors were back-to- back.  
  
McNeil did not expect what happened next, but was still able to react to it and impede upon it. Ghost's leather-clad right leg came up, the two still back-to-back, and aimed to crack McNeil's skull. However, it only connected with bare, rock-hard, tensed muscle as the masked warriors large bicep came up to oppose the would-be hit and push it in the opposite direction.  
  
The setback didn't encourage Ghost to give up, however. His left forearm hooked around, the Trinity soldier persistent in his attack. His attack was once again suppressed, this time by McNeil's left arm.  
  
At an obvious advantage, McNeil promptly attempted to break his enemy's spine in two with a straight kick. The sole of his boot smashed against Ghost's spinal cord, sending him back several feet, forcing him onto one knee. He groaned in agony as he looked over his shoulder and found himself staring down the barrel of an M-17. The muzzle lit up and the gun barked three times. One short burst was enough to kill the toughest of men. Three... easily able to penetrate any kind of armor and tear apart flesh and skin beneath.  
  
But what the Patriots mercenary saw next astounded him. Ghost stood instantly and sprinted towards the wall that he was facing, a mad dash away from the bullets that his enemy had shot at him. He, amazingly, outran every round; each hit the wall, drilling it full of holes. He dove toward the wall, bounding off of it and performing a corkscrew flip over McNeil's seven-foot-tall frame.  
  
He landed in front of his enemy, the two staring into the other's eyes. McNeil then attacked, and Ghost reacted.  
  
The M-17 was swung like a primitive club, aiming to decapitate the enemy. Ghost ducked and shifted around to face McNeil's back, but he was able to spin around in time to avoid an attack on his back, but Ghost was quick as well.  
  
His feet left the floor as he soared in the air and stretched out his right foot, kicking McNeil fiercely in the chin, but not forcing him off of his feet. His right hand, which housed his M-17, was now vulnerable, however, and Ghost took advantage. He hooked the gun and spun around 360 degrees, forcing it out of McNeil's temporarily weak grasp.  
  
McNeil then saw what was going to happen and would not let it go down. He dove straight up into the air and kicked the assault rifle out of Ghost's clutches, and the gun soared high above the two warriors.  
  
McNeil then leapt at least thirty inches in the air; large hands gripped the gun and the man who held it landed on one knee, facing his opponent. His aim was steady, not moving, the laser sight on one small area at all times.  
  
"Don't move!" The deep, gruff voice came from under McNeil's mask.  
  
All of this happened in the span of about ten seconds.  
  
The two then had a staredown, each pair of eyes burning a proverbial hole in the other. Ghost then used one of his favorite techniques, one he loved to use when he was at a direct disadvantage.  
  
"Your clip's dry McNeil... and you know it," he told his foe, a smile slowly forming on his face. He loved getting into his opponents' heads, to throw them off of their game, to make them lose any concentration that they may have had.  
  
"You'd have used it by now if it wasn't," he continued.  
  
"You sure about that?" McNeil replied.  
  
"Pretty sure."  
  
"Then make your move, wise guy."  
  
Ghost then chuckled, staring deeply into the Patriots soldier's eyes. He waited; patience is a virtue, after all. He then made the move that McNeil had dared him to. He drew one of his twin pistols, in his left hand, with a speed that could only be bettered by the likes of Revolver Ocelot.  
  
McNeil pulled back on the trigger of his M-17.  
  
'click'  
  
An empty clip.  
  
Ghost had been right.  
  
He gave a slight chuckle.  
  
"That's a good bluff, my friend. Not many men would have figured you out like I did. Great tactic."  
  
"One of my personal favorites."  
  
"It almost worked."  
  
"Almost doesn't count for shit."  
  
"Sure doesn't."  
  
"That's right. But the question now is do I have any grenades in the launcher?" said McNeil, steadily trying to buy time.  
  
"I'd say you're empty."  
  
"Then press your luck."  
  
Ghost right hand then reached for his other pistol, swift and hasty. McNeil prompted his gun to fire a grenade... and nothing happened.  
  
"You're good," complimented McNeil. "Either that, or you're the luckiest man on this planet."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
McNeil said nothing in response.  
  
Ghost knew that his opponent was at an obvious disadvantage, and let his hands drop to his sides. Each gun slowly made its way into its holder, and the Trinity soldier craned his neck to look behind him.  
  
He spotted a white-haired man, a skull suit covering his slender body. The man was unmoving, either unconscious or dead. He was bloody, his white hair stained a deep crimson hue.  
  
Ghost thought of something, and McNeil might as well have read his mind.  
  
"Don't even think about it!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, moving up towards his foe, pointing his gun despite its emptiness.  
  
The M-17 then flew halfway across the floor and skidded, and McNeil dashed towards the Trinity soldier. Shoulder met soft stomach flesh with enough impact to pick up both warriors well above the floor... and through the wall behind them. The cement splintered as if it were thin, light plastic.  
  
Both mercenaries landed in a seemingly secret room; they fell hard on the metal grated floor.  
  
The room was dank and dark, much like a typical basement. Everything had a bronze tint, the only color present in the room.  
  
One thing, however, differentiated it from a regular basement. Many thick, steel chains hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth perpetually.  
  
The room was bare excluding a few machinery appliances that did not seem to serve any purpose.  
  
The two warriors lie on the cold, damp floor, McNeil on his stomach, and Ghost face up. McNeil rolled over onto his back and groaned in agony, a pain like he'd never felt shooting through his body. He breathed heavily, his lungs struggling to take in the oxygen.  
  
Suddenly, the masked warrior felt a second wind. He sat straight up and stood on his feet, still breathing heavily, and half-limped his way over to Ghost, who remained motionless. He bent over and his large hands were ready to grasp the dreadlocks that covered the enemy's head and finish him off.  
  
But McNeil did not expect the toe of Ghost's boot to crash against his chin, once, twice. Ghost then completed a backflip, which lifted him up off of the floor, kicking McNeil in the chin a third time. He was forced back, his neck craning upwards from the impact. He ignored the pain, something that he was used to doing.  
  
The two soldiers then stood, both unarmed, each gazing at the other with a stare that would intimidate a hawk. McNeil then spotted something behind Ghost. A Trinity soldier, dying, on his knees. He lifted his gun and aimed it at the Patriots henchman. A dying man is not the fastest one, and he was easily taken out.  
  
McNeil's gun was quickly drawn from its holster on his right hip. He looked through the built in 2x scope and the pistol spat out three hot rounds, the brass piercing the heart of the already dying mercenary. He just helped to hurry up the process.  
  
Ghost then used this perfect opportunity to open fire, letting loose a salvo of bullets from both of his sidearms at McNeil's large, muscular body. They all collided with his chest and stomach area, but it wasn't enough to bring the big man down. He must have been grateful that he wore some body armor.  
  
Ghost then rushed toward the enemy and spun 360 degrees after bounding off of the floor, and kicked an already hurting McNeil in the jaw.  
  
The inhuman soldier remained on his feet, determined not to show weakness.  
  
An infuriated Ghost then walked over to his opponent, heavy steps clanking against the steel grated floor. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fist, and swung harder than he thought he could have, and nearly shattered McNeil's chin. He was finally phased, dropping to one knee. Ghost was not satisfied, however, and sprinted towards the masked warrior, ready to bring the fight to an end.  
  
The ever-resilient Jake McNeil caught him, on the other hand. A large right hand gripped his throat and a left clutched his side and tossed him vigorously into the steel plated wall behind him. He collided with scary impact, denting the wall instantaneously. He plummeted to the floor, his skull rebounding off of the floor with a sickening crash. He struggled to even move at this point, a pain like he'd never felt before shooting through his cranium.  
  
McNeil then dropped back to one knee, taking the time to regain his energy; he had virtually none left after using it all to heave Ghost against the wall.  
  
It turned out that it would take Ghost three full minutes to recover, yet he was still barely able to stand. But by the time he was, his opponent was gone, nowhere to be found. The Trinity soldier stood straight up and equipped his right hand pistol, looking everywhere around him.  
  
He heard a clinking sound behind him, that of a thick steel chain, and fired his gun with disregard for whoever or whatever had made the noise. Numerous rounds drilled a door full of holes. Ghost took his hand off of the trigger and watched the door fall off its hinges with a loud 'bang!'.  
  
Ghost then felt a pistol's barrel bear down on his skull through his thick dreadlocks.  
  
"Freeze..." McNeil didn't bother yelling. He didn't need to. He was able to get his point across without raising his voice.  
  
He held the pistol in place and circled his opponent. McNeil stopped when the muzzle of his gun faced Ghost's right jaw.  
  
That's when he saw something that surprised him. Raiden slowly stood on his feet, his M-4 pointed in Ghost's direction. He was breathing profoundly, gasping every few seconds. Raiden's aim was shaky, but he didn't care. They had Ghost outnumbered, and they were that much closer to completing their mission.  
  
McNeil's pistol then fired a tranquilizer round. The dart went towards Ghost's head with the speed of a bullet... and bypassed it, striking Jack between his left collarbone and his heart. The chemicals inside immediately took effect and rendered him unconscious.  
  
McNeil cocked his head towards the fallen soldier. He put his gun away as Ghost turned around and smiled at the sight of the motionless fighter.  
  
The Patriots warrior walked over to Jack and gripped a handful of his long, white hair and slung him over his right shoulder with ease. He and Ghost walked out of the room.  
  
Raiden had been a victim of deception and deceit... but it wasn't the first time. And it certainly would not be the last. 


	21. Chapter 21A: Man vs Machine

Chapter 21- Man vs. Machine  
  
Snake's head was throbbing. The soldier's eyes slowly opened, blinking several times, adjusting to the sudden change in light. He shook his head back and forth several times, getting rid of the figurative cobwebs.  
  
It may have been minutes since he passed out. Or hours. The battered mercenary doesn't know or care.  
  
The Philanthropy commando slowly made his way to his feet, still feeling some ill effects from his passing out. He was slightly dizzy, barely able to stand upright, his head was pounding, and his legs were weak, barely able to hold his two hundred-pound body upright.  
  
Despite this, Snake quickly snatched his sidearm from its holster and aimed it in front of his eyes. The aim was unsteady, the red dot that was the laser sight moving about hurriedly.  
  
He tried to remember what had recently happened, but couldn't recall, his mind fuzzy. However, about half a minute after getting up, he got a not-so- friendly reminder:  
  
"Solid Snake..." an oh-so-familiar disembodied voice rang out. "I believe that it was you... it was you who said, 'Reality is no match for the legend'. Well, if you feel that the reality can not take you down, perhaps the illusion can!"  
  
Snake then saw the entire room around him dematerialize, disappearing right in front of him. Slowly but surely, it vanished into nothing. The floor suddenly evaporated into nothingness and Snake felt his boots crunch in the snow.  
  
The commando then heard that too-familiar screech. A deafening roar made its way into Snake's ears, and the ground shook under the impact of something large... very, very large.  
  
The soldier's head craned around and looked at his new enemies. He saw three steel monsters, mammoths that were larger than anything he'd ever seen before. The trio of Metal Gear RAYs stomped their way lethargically towards Snake, in a triangle formation. Their "tails" swished back and forth like a tiger waiting to kill its prey; its "eyes" lit up a deep crimson, and its "mouth" separated into four steel plates as it roared at Snake, an intimidating gesture... to a normal human. Snake was not a normal human... the legend was not intimidated.  
  
He had a tall order ahead of him... literally. But Snake had taken down bigger problems than this, but it was never easy, and this would be no exception.  
  
The mercenary might as well have been unarmed; he had nothing to fight the mechanical behemoths with. His two pineapples, chaff grenade and half-empty pistol would do nothing against Metal Gear except get him killed... very quickly.  
  
Snake's pistol found its way back into its holster, and Snake stood, a calm but intense gaze staring the RAY down. The Metal Gear bent down, its "mouth" inches from Snake's face. It let out a devastating roar, easily enough to make the toughest of soldiers quiver in fear. It did not intimidate the Philanthropy commando. The action did not phase him; it only made him more intent on winning the battle.  
  
Snake had a steep hill to climb, and all he could do now was stay on the defensive as the Metal Gears began their respective attacks. The RAY standing in the rear launched three heat-seeking, homing missiles, looking to end the fight early. The trio of projectiles soared through the air, high over the heads of the other RAYs, an airborne light-blue streak that flew across the sky in formation towards Snake's exact position. They aimed to leave him as nothing more than a bloodstain in the snow, but Snake was far too quick.  
  
He broke out into a sprint in the opposite direction, but so did the missiles, changing course to follow its target. They winged through the sky, slowly descending, following Snake's every movement.  
  
The Philanthropy soldier then saw a large crate in his path, easily six and a half feet high. He then thought about his options; it took him only about a second... it was all the time he had.  
  
Snake had no choice. He continued his run and bent his knees and dove over the obstacle, swan diving to the other side, completing a forward roll upon his landing.  
  
The missiles, aiming for Snake, struck the crate instead, with a sound that could only be described as an earsplitting 'crack!' and a deafening explosion rolled into one. Wood and whatever else the crate was made of flew through the air in Snake's direction. The mercenary hit the deck, dropping to his stomach to avoid being hit by any flying debris. The fragments of the crate flew over his head, and he watched them land at least six feet ahead of him.  
  
Snake quickly got to his feet and immediately looked over his shoulder. He saw the hulking beasts, staring him down, ready to attack the enemy.  
  
He then caught sight of two rockets heading towards him, fired from the lead RAY's knee pods. They traveled in a half-circle until they would both meet... with something between them. Snake did not want to be that "something".  
  
He hastily sprung into the air, performing a backflip over the missiles; it was both beautiful and effective. The two projectiles sped under his back and met, exploding upon the impact. He had dodged two literal and figurative bullets, but the Metal Gears had a lot more up their nonexistent sleeves.  
  
Snake turned around without any hesitation, and saw the RAYs' next plan. The lead Metal Gear once again went in for the attack. Its "mouth" opened into four steel plates, revealing a small barrel, no bigger than that of a large gun. However, this mechanism packed quite a punch.  
  
It was activated, and a rail blast shot out at an insane speed, cutting through anything in its path. The rail gun was a wonderful weapon; it would slice with ease through any cover that someone may be using, and then would proceed to destroy said person in mere fractions of a second.  
  
Snake wasn't going to let this take place, however... or at least that what he thought. The RAYs had different thoughts on the matter.  
  
The Metal Gear was too quick for Snake, however. It struck, and the rail blast traveled through the air, headed for Snake's anatomy. He turned around and sprinted away from the attack, but wasn't fast enough to evade. The mercenary was hit, by a powerful rail cannon blast. It hit the spinal cord, dropping the soldier at once.  
  
He groaned in pain, a loud, raspy cry of pain... if that word could even be used to illustrate the sensation. Snake then spotted a crane near his position, and he crawled his way over, the sound of the RAYs' monstrous screech ringing in his ears. He propped himself against the base of the makeshift support and brought his left hand up and around to activate the codec, slightly tapping his right ear several times.  
  
"Otacon!"  
  
"Snake!" Otacon exclaimed, worry easily evident in his voice. "Where have you been?!"  
  
"No time to explain...!"  
  
"I understand, Snake. I see that you're hurt... that rail cannon is a killer. But don't worry. You can shoot out the pod in the RAY's mouth, even with a pistol! It's a very weak mechanism, not capable of sustaining much damage. It may take a few shots, though, and I don't know if you've got a targeting scope on any of the guns that you have right now. You may need to get a little close to the Metal Gear."  
  
"This advice would've been great before I got hit..." Snake told his partner, in all seriousness. He groaned again, the pain killing him every second.  
  
"Sorry, Snake. It won't happen again."  
  
"For my sake, I hope it doesn't."  
  
Snake killed the line after those last words and got back to business. He was still hurting, but he was alive, and as long as was living, he had a chance. He waited about two or three minutes before attempting to get up.  
  
He then tried to stand, and couldn't, dropping back down to a crouch, leaning against the crane.  
  
"Snake!" yelled out that recognizable ethereal voice, the rasping, low tone far too familiar to Snake's ears. "Don't give up yet! You've got more fight in you than that... don't you?  
  
"Defeat these Metal Gears, Snake, and your reward will be great."  
  
The commando, taking in what Arcane told him, stood, which was a feat in and of itself, and went around the crane. Nothing stood between he and his enemies at this point in time.  
  
The RAY in the back, to Snake's left, fired its rail cannon from its mouth. Snake was well able to avoid the attack this time, however. He simply ran to his right and the attempted strike completely bypassed him.  
  
The Metal Gear nearest to the commando, at this time opened its mouth, ready to fire the rail cannon at him. But the mercenary knew how to counter this attack. He performed a diving roll to his right and began his attack.  
  
Snake then bent down on one knee and grasped his pistol from the holster attached to his hip. The soldier, at that moment, pulled the Beretta's trigger back three times, ordering it to send a trio of bullets into the RAY's mouth. Each bullet connected with the area in the middle of its mouth, causing an emission of sparks, indicating a malfunction. Otacon had been right.  
  
The RAY then roared, a loud, earsplitting screech. It seemed angry at Snake's attack, and the fact that it was successful. The other Metal Gear, the lead, was just closing the four steel plates that formed its mouth, and the soldier let out a salvo of bullets into it before that could occur. Sparks could be seen from inside this RAY's mechanical jaws before they closed completely. The rail cannon attack was now not much of a threat for Snake, and it would make the battle that much easier.  
  
The last Metal Gear, the only one whose rail cannon was still functional was smart enough to not use it, to not even open its jaws. Snake could do nothing now, except look, once again, for adequate cover.  
  
However, Snake then found something infinitely better than good cover. He saw a downed chopper; it appeared to still be functional. A Kasatka, not the best attack copter out there; but it was better than nothing.  
  
Snake, fortunately, knew the basics of piloting a chopper; you had to in order to join Fox-Hound. He looked in the door, hurriedly, before the RAYs had a chance to attack again.  
  
There were two soldiers in the two front seats, presumably the pilot and co- pilot. Snake grabbed the shoulder of the corpse nearest him and shoved him out of the seat, then slid into the now-vacant space. He kicked the other soldier out of the other door, deciding to get into that seat; the left side was usually reserved for the pilot, the right for the co-pilot.  
  
That's when Snake's codec ring sounded. He tapped his inner ear, "answering" the "call".  
  
"Snake! You found a Kasatka!" Otacon praised.  
  
"Yeah. It's in good shape. Not too great for attacking three fifty-foot tall machines."  
  
"No, Snake. That's a special model. These aren't even normally available for military use; they're still being tested.  
  
"Anyway, you know what a Kasatka is normally used for," Otacon told his partner.  
  
"Troop transportation, reconnaissance and the occasional target designation for partner gunships," Snake answered. "They can be used for special ops and radio-electric jamming as well."  
  
"Exactly. But this model can do more than that. This has some heavy- artillery weapons, and that's saying a lot for a chopper. You have control of great air-to-air missiles; Sidewinders, to be exact. You have two machine gun barrels mounted on both doors, and Mk-82 air-to-ground missiles. In other words, Snake, you're armed to the teeth.  
  
"However..."  
  
"This isn't going to be good..." Snake commented.  
  
"This new Kasatka isn't near as fast as the old model; you'll be twice, if not three times as slow in the air. But, like you already know, the weapons make up for that... plus the fact that these new models have heat masking. Besides, that Beretta isn't going to do anything to those Metal Gears except make them angry."  
  
"Then this should be fun," were Snake's last words before the connection between the two friends was discontinued.  
  
Snake started up the chopper, and the engine roared to life. The blades atop the bird began to spin, initially slow, but speeding up quickly, until their look changed from four separate blades to one spinning blur. Its base soon rose from the snowy floor, gaining air fast. Three, five, ten, soon fifteen feet in the air was the helicopter, and the machine was still gaining altitude.  
  
Snake flew the mechanical beast above the Metal Gears' heads, trying to get a good feel for the handling of the chopper before going into battle. He flew around, and one RAY, showing its impatience, fired its machine gun from the barrel mounted on its left arm. The near invisible barrel lit up and spat a salvo of slugs smacked the side of the helicopter, rocking it in the sky.  
  
"Damn!" Snake showed his anger, mostly at himself for acting so haphazardly.  
  
The chopper went in the opposite direction that Snake had piloted it, still swaying from the impact of the shooting. Snake fought to regain control, and finally did, but not after a tough struggle. He flew away from the Metal Gear, who, once again, let out a stream of bullets at Snake's newly found vehicle. The soldier was able to steer clear of the attack however, dodging nearly every bullet. Those that did hit, however, did nothing but ping off of the steel body of the mechanical bird, not doing much damage, if any at all.  
  
Snake answered with an attack of his own, activating one of his air-to- ground missiles, targeting the lead RAY's knees, the commonly known weak spot of any bipedal Metal Gear. It hit, a successful shot for the Philanthropy commando. The rocket exploded against the knee of the RAY, and it reacted with human attributes. Its arms flailed, knees bent down slightly, and mouth opened wide as if it were screaming. Red nanopaste (which looks similar to human blood) that was used to treat the "injury" secreted from the "wound", dropping to the snowy ground below.  
  
The mercenary then wasted no time in activating his air-to-air missile, aiming to nail the inside of the Metal Gear's mouth, which was wide open. He let off two of them, both hitting their target. The RAY screamed in pain and actually staggered back several steps; it might as well have been a giant human.  
  
Snake was ready to deliver a couple more shots into the RAY's still open mouth, but another RAY figuratively stepped in to help its ally, aiming and launching three guided missiles at the chopper out of the rocket pod sitting on its back. Snake then put the proverbial pedal to the metal and zoomed off, dodging the rockets one by one, turning and changing direction constantly. They all, eventually, harmlessly hit the ground; this made the Metal Gears angry, and the lone RAY in the back attempted to use its rail cannon; it was the only one still with a functional rail gun.  
  
Its mouth opened, but Snake's hands were too swift. A bombardment of bullets was released into the Metal Gear's mouth, nanoseconds before it planned on letting out the rail cannon. The familiar sparks signaled a breakdown in the RAY's rail cannon apparatus. Rail blasts wouldn't be a problem any longer.  
  
Snake then let off two missiles into the mouth of that same Metal Gear; they both connected, and the RAY staggered. Lurching about, the Metal Gear stood for approximately five more seconds... before it fell to the ground, a deafening crash heard upon the crash. Snake had felled one of the giants... but he only one-third of the job was done.  
  
He swerved out of the way of the falling beast, as not to be hit. The mercenary made it out of the way, barely missing the plummeting machine skimming his chopper.  
  
Snake then veered in the opposite direction. He was now facing the two remaining steel behemoths, hovering in the air, the only sound heard being the constant hum from the rotary blades atop the helicopter.  
  
The soldier, at that moment, turned around and ascended, soaring higher and higher into the air. He waited until he was at a reasonable elevation, and performed a nosedive between the two mammoth machines. He let out two air- to-ground missiles, his last two; Snake was not a man afraid of risk.  
  
Each rocket connected, one with each of the RAY's knees. They both showed the typical reaction; their knees bent and they roared in discomfort as nanopaste spewed out of the "gash". He then looked at the display inside the chopper: two air-to-air missiles remaining. He knew that one was not enough to take down either RAY, and he couldn't waste both on one of the Metal Gears. The combatant had no choice, however.  
  
He soared back up, eye-to-nose with the RAYs, still screeching. Snake launched two air-to-airs into the open mouth of the RAY on the left. It was sufficient enough damage to take the monster down. The RAY staggered, and dropped to the ground, the sound of the raucous impact penetrating Snake's "soundproof" windows easily.  
  
Snake then, still in the chopper, stared down the last RAY. The Metal Gear wasn't intimidated, if it even could be. It showed this, and launched various rockets from its back pod. They flew up, aiming for Snake's chopper.  
  
The soldier simply flew backwards, but the missiles followed him, soaring through the sky right behind him; it might as well have been a race. Snake then hit a sudden and unexpected U-turn and fired the machine gun at the oncoming projectiles. They exploded, saving the commando from possibly dying. But there was one remaining that Snake had not hit, and he had no time to dodge it.  
  
It blasted against the chopper, exploding instantaneously. The mechanical bird went up in flames and took an involuntary nosedive.  
  
Snake had no choice but to leap from the quickly descending chopper. He leapt, landing brutally, both knees taking in all of the impact.  
  
The chopper, however, landed in front of the RAY.  
  
Snake was now hurt, lying helpless on the ground, with nothing that would be effective in defeating the Metal Gear. The RAY, however, stood tall. It slowly walked over to its fallen prey, stepping on what was left of the helicopter, crushing it underneath the weight.  
  
The RAY then roared loudly, a victory cry. But the fight was not over...  
  
Snake stood, battered, bruised, but alive. He looked high up at the Metal Gear, roaring in victory.  
  
The worn out soldier then looked to his left, noticing Kyle Schneider's body lying, motionless, the missile launcher still clutched in his dead hands.  
  
Snake then checked his equipment compartments, and found a chaff grenade. He brought it out and looked at it, studying it, thinking. The combatant then looked up at the RAY, still in its victory roar.  
  
He then pulled the pin off of the chaff grenade and cocked his arm back as far as it would go and launched it towards the RAY's mouth.  
  
It seemed to take forever, but it finally landed... in the Metal Gear's mouth. It seemed not to notice, continuing its screech.  
  
Snake, while waiting for the explosive to detonate, rushed to Kyle's side and looked back at the RAY... malfunctioning, going crazy. The grenade had exploded; it was even more lethal when in the mouth of the Metal Gear. It tore apart the AI program built into its "head", scrambling it, confusing the mammoth beast.  
  
The gargantuan machine then bent over, staring Snake in the eyes, its head shaking violently. Snake stared back, with something in his hands. The gigantic missile launcher being held up by his left hand, his right hand on the "trigger"... and the barrel pointed at the Metal Gear's head.  
  
Four missiles exploded into the Metal Gear's mouth, and the rocket launcher fell to the ground.  
  
The RAY swayed back and forth from the tremendous impact... its "life" was ending, promptly at that. It then fell forward right in front of Snake, a heart-stopping impact that did not affect the hardened soldier.  
  
Snake had won this near-impossible battle.  
  
David had defeated Goliath. 


	22. Chapter 22: Memories

Chapter 22- Memories  
  
Raiden, limp and unconscious, was carried like a small child over McNeil's large, rock-hard right shoulder. His arms and legs hung lifelessly at McNeil's front and back; the tranquilizer round had done its job and more. Jack's face was one of tranquility and serenity; he was completely relaxed at the moment. McNeil, however, wore a figurative mask of a cold, uncaring individual.  
  
If he'd been conscious long enough to do so, Jack probably would have been shocked at the least at his assumed ally's actions. He may not have been, however. Raiden was a man used to deceit and conniving; he experienced several years of just that at Solidus Snake's "Army of the Devil," as well as in his regular life before that.  
  
Friends stabbing him in the back (sometimes literally) and supposed partners switching sides on the young warrior were almost an everyday occurrence. It happened far too often, yet he was at no power to stop it, or even slow down its progress. Jack had many a time battled against treachery, but nevertheless has yet to chalk up a victory against his worst enemy. He had no tools, no weapons to fight this invincible foe.  
  
Life was the main element of his existence that deceived him the most. His fate was often cruel, but life almost always sent him messages of good things to come, before slapping him in the face and altering the event to something tragic and inhumane.  
  
At the age of just fourteen years, Jack was not at the top of the social mountain, nor was he anywhere near it.  
  
His move toward the mountain did not begin until the tender age of twelve, however. Jack was what one could call a bookworm. He loved staying in the house, reading military books; he took a particular interest in those written by great author Tom Clancy. He knew of all American wars in his World History class, from the Civil War to the Gulf War.  
  
Mocked and ridiculed for this, among other things, he put up with only two years of torture. He never began climbing the social ladder (that is, coming out of the house under free will and meeting people) until he was twelve years of age. He put up with those long, hard two years of torment until he heard those three, seemingly magical words.  
  
"We're moving, Jack."  
  
His very being oozed with bliss and ecstasy at the sound of his mother's heartening statement. He would finally, at long last be parting from this Hellhole that was erroneously dubbed a "neighborhood." He'd be leaving the cruel, satanic taunting and teasing of his demonic peers.  
  
He remembered walking into his new house for the first time, his parents and younger sister, Sara, not far behind. Jack was the most eager of the four, sprinting into the house with glee. He'd explored the whole house before the moving team had unpacked the their belongings.  
  
He remembered the team finally finishing loading the paraphernalia in; his new house was complete, and he was eager to meet new friends, to start anew.  
  
He also remembered the one horrendous day. Jack remembered enjoying a meal in front of the television, his PlayStation plugged in, various games lying muddled in front of the two. He remembered hearing the ominous 'thump!' at the door several times. It was no knock, however. Jack knew that. The door was dented in three times, before completely giving way to whatever was behind it and crashing in.  
  
He remembered seeing the battalion of soldiers invade his house, similar to a pack of lions invading the grazing place of an elk.  
  
Jack was smart enough at the age of fifteen (his birthday having occurred recently before his family moved) to conceal himself between his two-seat couch and his wall. It was an excellent hiding spot, one he used to a great extent in Hide and go Seek with his younger sister and parents.  
  
A copious amount of masked soldiers stormed into the Jack's abode, showing no mercy whatsoever. Jack remembered peeking overtop of his leather clad furniture, watching the guards eyes move back and forth slowly, searching for anything moving. Their guns, immediately identified by Jack as AK-47s, were ready to fire, but remained silent in the soldiers' hunt for Jack and his family. Two soldiers stalked up Jack's steps; his immediate reaction would be to stop them, but he knew that he stood little if no chance, even with his well-built five foot ten inch, one hundred ninety-pound body and rather extensive self-defense proficiency, against a greatly armed squad of super-soldiers.  
  
Jack then saw something, a mysterious figure standing solitarily behind all of the terrorists. A rather large man, wearing a black business suit, sunglasses hiding his eyes behind tinted glass. His gray hair and beard instantaneously tipped Jack off as to who he was. George Sears, the Vice- President of the United States; rumors were flying at the time, alleging that he would run for the position President at the next election.  
  
He and the current President were supposedly in Jack's town at the time to promote a new economic plan for the country, going from city to city and informing the citizens of their proposal. Jack's city happened to be the last stop on their fifty-city tour. He knew that they were merely using that as a cover up, or perhaps to kill the figurative two birds with one stone; getting two things done in the time that it takes to do one.  
  
_'What do they want with me... or us?'_ Jack remembered thinking.  
  
He also remembered hearing the horrendous shrieks coming from a room up the stairs of the house. They were more death gurgles than anything else.  
  
He remembered seeing the atrocious sight of his parents' bloody, limp bodies being dragged down the stairs, painting them an ill-omened red over the white carpeting. He also spotted the lifeless body of his younger sister; he was unsure of her state. Was she dead or alive? The absence of blood on her body tipped Jack off that she had a chance of being alive.  
  
He remembered seeing his mother reach out to him; Jack had no clue as to how she knew his position. She started to say something, but her skull was caved in by a well-placed blunt strike using the butt of one soldier's AK- 47.  
  
Something deep down inside of Jack then sparked. His very being snapped, and he crossed the border to insanity. He abruptly leapt over the couch, clutched a metal pipe that was an accessory to his vacuum, and smashed the makeshift weapon against the cranium of an unsuspecting soldier, his anger fueling the attack. The unsuspicious warrior plummeted to the floor like a brick, a depression in his helmet showing the fact that his skull was viciously dented in.  
  
The other soldiers turned hastily at the low sound of metal-on-metal as the conduit weapon rebounded noisily off of the soldier's helmeted head.  
  
Jack's ears filled with the sound of clicking of the soldiers' assault rifles, an unpromising noise that meant immediate danger. They all, including Sears, then realized who he was as he stood motionless, his hands as well as his weapon red with the blood of the dead soldier lying in front of him.  
  
"No!" Sears' voice was stern and hardhearted; he meant what he was saying, and his lackeys knew it. "Do _not_ kill the kid!"  
  
Jack knew that he was "the kid," and he could use the fact that they wanted him alive to his immediate advantage.  
  
He swung the weapon like a cudgel, whipping it through the air with excessive velocity until the wide-open jaw of a nearby soldier cut off its course. Jack could hear the cracking and breaking of the numerous bones upon the impact of his attack.  
  
One soldier mimicked Jack in his actions, and swung his own gun in a similar manner. The attack was aimed at Jack's white-hair-enveloped skull. It would have, more than likely, rendered the young man unconscious, had it connected. However, Jack's feline-like instincts and agility overcame the strike, as Jack was able to bring his head close to the floor to successfully evade the attempted blow. Consequently, the butt of the rifle crashed against another soldier's temple, knocking him, as well as a small piece of his helmet to the floor. Both lay immobile.  
  
Jack was immediately attack after that as another combatant grabbed Jack in a crudely done chokehold; he used his gun as a garrote, cutting off Jack's supply of oxygen that flowed to his brain. One of his hands were planted tightly on each end of the gun which was placed in the middle of Jack's neck and pulled back with tremendous force. Had the attack worked, it wouldn't have killed him. But Jack's free hands allowed him to escape the grapple as his elbow collided with the nose of his captor. The third elbow strike broke the nose and forced blood to drip from the wound as the soldier's grip on the gun weakened, as did his ability to stand; both he and the gun crashed to the floor, unmoving.  
  
The soldiers then took this time to take Jack down as he was recovering from the attack. One fighter's knee almost destroyed the insides of Jack's stomach, the pain driving him to one knee; both palms dropped to the floor, an instant, subconscious reaction, to avoid a further fall.  
  
Jack's long, white hair was soon in the grasp of the gloved hand of a soldier, the right hand clutching Jack's flowing locks and lifting him up off of the floor against his will, though he was too weak after the blow to the stomach to resist. He was held up by only his hair by one soldier as another readied a rather long syringe, filled with a clear fluid, unrecognizable by a semi-conscious Jack.  
  
The needle stabbed through his skin without much fight and the liquid was injected into the helpless teen's bloodstream via a vein in his forearm. It immediately altered Jack's state from semi-conscious to unconscious, as his eyes closed and his body appeared lifeless; he was in a moderately deep coma. The condition was similar to that of one who has been under the influence of nitrous oxide, commonly known as laughing gas. Jack could hear everything around him (be it faintly), but could not see nor could he operate or feel his limbs.  
  
He was dragged to a truck outside of his house, the every fabric of his being telling him to protest, to do something other than be taken into this truck to go to who-knows-where. But it was hopeless, a waste of time. Jack was thrown into the truck, and the other soldiers piled in as the truck took off to go... somewhere.  
  
Jack's next direct memory came in a place that he'd never seen before. His bleary eyes slowly opened, quickly adjusting to the excessive amount of light into which he was forced to stare. He found that he could not move any of his body, excluding his eyes. He could still feel everything around him. From what he could tell, he was probably laying on some type of bed. His thoughts were discontinued, however, by the voices of two others, one male, and one female.  
  
"Complete amnesia?" the male asked, his question assumingly directed toward the female.  
  
"No, not complete. He can still remember things that happened to him; direct memories," the woman informed him. "He can't seem to recall facts, however; anything that he learned is gone, including his own name."  
  
"Interesting. Know why?"  
  
"No. We were unable to establish a cause."  
  
"I see. Wake him up. Get him ready."  
  
"Will do," were the last words between the two before the man walked out of the room, the sound of the sliding door ringing in Jack's ears. He'd actually heard the partners' conversation, and he'd also not heard it at the same time. The sounds had resonated into Jack's brain, but he did not and could not interpret them. They meant nothing to him... now. Not a lot did.  
  
The woman, on the other hand, remained in the room with the disoriented young man. She looked over him as he groaned slightly; his motor skills were coming back. She did not want to do what she was about to.  
  
"Jack? Jack, wake up." She shook him slightly, not enough to hurt him, but enough to, somehow, speed up his motor skill recovery.  
  
Jack only groaned in response, his mouth dry like sandpaper, his senses fogged up, hazy. His arms and legs were numb, but not as badly as at the time when he'd first woken up. He brought his barely-movable hand up to his forehead; it was shaking and slow to come up. He dabbed his brow with his palm; he felt nothing and brought his limb in front of his cloudy view. It was sweat-soaked, the fluid dripping from his hand onto his shirt like a heavy rainfall.  
  
The woman saw in his eyes that Jack was obviously nervous and uneasy. She put his hand back down to his side and clasped it in hers. Jack could feel nothing else except the tender touch of the woman's slender fingers. It was somehow reassuring, as was the melodious sound of her voice reverberating in his ears.  
  
"It's alright, Jack," she told him. "You'll be fine." She almost cursed herself for lying, although it's not really lying when you're not sure of the truth.  
  
Jack said nothing in reply, and only gave a low sigh... of relief, perhaps?  
  
"Glad to see that you're moving, though. You're doing alright so far."  
  
The woman was surprisingly nice to him. He wondered, subconsciously, if it was all an act. He was unsure, but he ignored his feeling and listened to her.  
  
She then realized something, something that she'd forgotten to do. "Please, Jack, forgive me. I've neglected to introduce myself. My name is Dr. Stephanie Hendrickson.  
  
And let me tell you that you are here for a good reason. Although we can not tell you those reasons as they are considered classified information, you must take our word for it. You must.  
  
"Now, Jack, I know it's early and you're still probably still very tired, but we need to start with your rehab and get some baseline data for your physical capabilities. We'll need them for comparison tests."  
  
Jack looked slightly confused; he had no idea what was going on. All of this information flowing into his brain at once, while he couldn't remember his own name.  
  
"Don't worry, Jack," she comforted him. "Everything will be explained later. I promise. Now, let's get to work. Can you get up?"  
  
"Uhh..." was his reply as he swung his shaking legs over the bed and the sole of his boots touched the floor with a loud _'click!'_ as leather met tile. He was about to stand until he was met by a sudden, unexpected swarm of nausea. His stomach did backflips as the queasiness overwhelmed him. A chill overcame his senses, although the sweat continued to drip.  
  
Jack had to use every ounce of his energy to run over to a toilet, conveniently placed all the way across the room and bend over in front of the bowl. Whatever he'd eaten last came up through his system and he puked up red-orange slop. It immediately fell into the toilet bowl, creating a low _'splash.'_ He continued to throw up for another ten seconds until the woman approached his side. He was breathing heavily, the nausea gone, but the chill still sweeping through his body.  
  
"You alright, Jack? I know how you feel, believe it or not. Now, before we begin, I have one question: what is your full name?"  
  
Jack gave Dr. Hendrickson a confused, rather depressing look. She tried not to show her emotion, but it was hard. Tears were fighting to come out, but refused to fall. She could not afford to neither like nor feel sorry for her subjects.  
  
"You don't know? I'm not surprised. You must still have some memory impairments."  
  
A beeping sound could then be heard, and a large, red light lit. The woman's head turned instantly toward the noise. She got up quickly to respond to the call after telling Jack,  
  
"Wait here. I'll be right back."  
  
As she walked over to the device, Jack saw her push a button and say something to whoever was on the other line.  
  
"Yeah. He's up and moving."  
  
Jack used this time to ignore Hendrickson's conversation and wipe the barf from his mouth with the top of his forearm. That's when he first realized it. After he'd cleaned his mouth, he gathered a look at his attire. He was shirtless, with brown camouflage pants covering his legs. He looked on his naked top, and saw a surprising sight. His body was plastered in strange tattoos. Bar codes that made things even more difficult to understand.  
  
Jack then inspected his left forearm. It said something that he could barely make out.  
  
LOGAN 018  
  
"Logan"? Was that his name? His last name, perhaps? He knew, or at least assumed that his first name was Jack, as that was the only was that Dr. Hendrickson had identified him. And what was the number about? "018?" What significance did this figure have?  
  
He though nothing more of it, though, and looked back to the mystery woman, who was ending her exchange with whomever she was conversing with. The doctor turned back to him and said,  
  
"Let's go, Jack. We need to start your rehab now." Each of their right hands met and she helped him up, showing an unusual amount of strength for a woman, especially one her size. He rose quickly to his feet, with her help, and shook off the cobwebs and followed the woman to the door. When she got to the door, she snatched something off of a nearby table and tossed it to the young man.  
  
"Put this on," she told him. Jack caught it and examined it, finding that it was a shirt that matched his pants. Upon further examination, he found that a nametag was stitched onto the collar, identical to that on his left arm. Inscribed on the shirt was what he presumed to be his last name and the number "018."  
  
After he'd placed the shirt over his bare chest, he continued to follow the woman out of the room and into another. He had no idea what this building was and why he was here, and he figured that he wouldn't be finding out anytime soon.  
  
The two entered a new room, a similar design as the previous room in the fact that it was tiled and was a dull gray color. There was however, a large breach in the floor, a gap far too large for anyone to jump across without assistance of some kind. Jack turned around and spoke.  
  
"Wha...." He cut off his own sentence, as the doctor was no longer at his side. He looked around him until he heard his name being called.  
  
"Jack! Up here!" He looked up, to his right, and saw a large glass booth, an array of computers filling the room. Dr. Hendrickson kept a sharp, eagles eye on Jack, notepad and pen in hand.  
  
"Okay, Jack. Here it is. The obstacle course. Now, you can plainly see the large opening in the floor in front of you. You need to find a way across it. Then you must simply complete the course.  
  
"Good luck, Jack."  
  
But the second the word "simply" escaped her lips, she could be considered a liar. The course was far from simple. Jack knew that this would take him a while and considered whether or not he should cooperate. He decided against his better judgment to go rebel and chose to complete the course.  
  
He examined the hole, first. It was too wide to jump across and too deep to drop down and climb up on the other side. It wasn't as if he could have, anyway. The bottom of the pit was full of visible landmines. If he were to fall down, Jack would become mincemeat.  
  
He thought about his options, looking around for anything to help him out. He saw nothing, no foreign objects, nothing. The only thing there was the pit of doom in front of him, just waiting for the moment that something or someone would be stupid or clumsy enough to fall down.  
  
Jack then had a spark of genius. He wasn't sure if it was possible, and one flaw meant dire consequences. However, it was the only way that he could think of getting over. He had to try it.  
  
He took one final breath before his chancy sink-or-swim attempt to jump over the break in the floor. His knees bent and Jack sprinted forward, towards the hole, the leather sole of his boots giving off a monotonous 'clack, clack, clack' sound. His feet left the floor after the sixth step as he leapt with the grace of a bird... towards the wall to his left. The underside of each of his combat boots hit the wall for a split-second before he pushed off of the wall with all of the strength that his fifteen- year-old legs would allow.  
  
Jack had known that one mistake could, and probably would mean instant death. He was right. His actual goal was to be able to, by using the wall for leverage, make the jump across the bridge. He was unable to achieve this aim, conversely, and ended up falling short of landing on the other side. But Jack was able, barely, to grab the edge of the other end... while hanging backwards. He'd mistakenly completed a one hundred eighty degree turn, causing him to wind up facing the side at which he started.  
  
He hung, by one hand, above imminent disaster. He brought his other, right hand up and, using it, took hold of the corner that his left hand held up... he was lucky. The second that his right hand grabbed the edge, his left hand dropped, unable to hold up his one hundred pounds of body weight.  
  
Now, hanging from one hand, be it his dominant, Jack prayed that he wouldn't drop. Why would they even do this to him? Were they trying to kill him?  
  
It appeared that his prayers may have been answered, as Jack suddenly found the strength inside of himself, deep within his soul, to pull himself up, "skinning the cat" as some would call it, and flipping over the edge on his two feet.  
  
He immediately, instinctively fell back away from the hole. His perspiration rate increased greatly, as did his adrenaline, pumping at the maximum, pushing his body to its limits and perhaps beyond. He stood, after falling down when backing away from the bridge in the floor, and looked behind him. He saw the rest of the course, complex and multifaceted.  
  
He started quickly, climbing the single rope in front of him, which may have been a feat in and of itself, considering the toll that his body had recently taken. The rope was approximately twenty feet high, and it took Jack about ten seconds to climb it.  
  
Upon reaching the top, Jack found himself on a small platform, no more than six by ten feet. He looked down and saw a rope net, and slowly grabbed it with both hands, placed his feet into two different spaces and climbed down a forty-five foot drop.  
  
When he reached the bottom, he hopped off and slowly turned around. He saw nothing in front of him except a wall with a small hole placed at the top; it looked barely big enough to fit his body.  
  
_How am I supposed to get through that?_ He thought to himself.  
  
He then looked up and saw a thin, metal pole, and he knew what to do immediately. He leapt into the air and grabbed the pole with both hands and went hand-over-hand across towards the perforation in the wall in front of him. He brought his legs up similarly to a sloth before he approached it, as to fit through it. As a result, he moved more slowly, but it was the only that he'd fit through the aperture.  
  
He swerved his body through the multiple twist-turns before he saw light and came out of the dark, tight maze. He dropped down, falling to the ground from higher up than he'd thought, but he ignored the shock that his feet absorbed from the impact and eyed the area in front of him.  
  
He found his eyes fixated on a large, immense body of water, right in the middle of the room. He looked around for another route, and found one. A pole was attached to the wall to his right that he could easily go hand- over-hand across to traverse the water.  
  
However, before he decided to do so, he spotted a small, trap door past the shimmering surface of the water. His curiosity overcame his laziness and his want to take the easy way out, and he dove into the water, although he absolutely detested swimming, or, for that matter, coming in contact with any large amount of water... although he was a very good swimmer, actually. The learning wasn't without its hardships, however, considering his hatred for water.  
  
Regardless, he swam quickly and hastily towards the minute, hidden door underneath the door. He reached it and clutched it in both hands and turned the handle clockwise and pulled it open, swimming into the diminutive room, which was dry, save for the little bit of water that snuck in before Jack shut and sealed the door. It was large enough for him to walk through, but only while crouching. Jack then felt his BDU (Battle Dress Uniform). It was completely dry. Not a drop of water could be felt.  
  
_That's cool..._ He thought to himself.  
  
As he resumed navigating the passage, he got the surprise of a lifetime. A blade shot out from the wall to his left, ready to impale his skull, an experience that he would not likely live through.  
  
His reaction time was quick enough for him to avoid it as he hugged the wall to his right. The blade's sharp, gleaming tip was centimeters from Jack's brow, between his eyes, menacing and intimidating.  
  
Jack's breaths were quick and heavy, more gasps than actual breaths. Sweat poured from his skin faster than it ever had, his heart pumping his blood a thousand times every second.  
  
He waited a few seconds before continuing and then finished his journey through the course, keeping his back attached to the wall and praying that no blades happened to come through the right side of the duct.  
  
None did, and Jack came out and wound up standing in a small room, still perspirating intensely. He found a ladder right in front of him, and he proceeded to climb it, expecting another surprise, ready for it, whatever it may have been.  
  
As he ascended the ladder, the own sound of his boot sliding off of a rung made him jump, nearly falling off. But he continued, startled, with butterflies the size of pteranadons in his stomach. He reached the top and found a hatch that he knew not where it led. He pushed it open anyway, and peered over the top, only revealing his white-haired head above the surface, acting as a human periscope.  
  
Seeing no immediate danger, he climbed, unhurriedly, over the top of the door, and found himself... at the exact place at which he'd started.  
  
"Not bad, Jack, not bad," he heard from above. He spotted Dr. Hendrickson, scribbling on her notepad.  
  
"You did good, Mr. Logan. Sorry to push you so hard, though, but please work with us. Everything will be explained in time.  
  
Now it's time to break for lunch. Go back to your room; we've left you a little something to eat. You've earned it."  
  
Jack was tired and planned on resting as soon as he finished his meal. He ran to his room as quickly as his tired body could and spotted the meal that she must have been speaking of. It consisted of a cheeseburger, a small cup of water and a smaller bag of potato chips.  
  
He hungrily scarfed down the cheeseburger and ripped open the bag of chips afterwards. The chips were fresh, as was the burger, a refreshing, be it small, meal. Finishing the chips, he washed it down with the water. After taking a sip of the ice-cold fluid, he felt a lightheaded sensation and a sharp pain stabbed his stomach as well as his head.  
  
The throbbing in his stomach soon turned to nausea, great enough that he could no longer stand because of it. He collapsed face-first on his bed, conveniently positioned right next to him as dizziness clouded his vision. Words from a, as far as he was concerned, disembodied voice then invaded his mind.  
  
"It's alright Jack," the doctor's voice echoed in his brain. "We just gave you something to help you rest." There was a pause before her next statement, which probably wasn't directed to Jack.  
  
"Yeah, definitely. We can use him..."  
  
This was all he was able to perceive before his psyche entered oblivion.  
  
His next immediate recollection came as he was ripped from his sleep by a loud, stern, male voice.  
  
"Wake up, trainees!"  
  
Jack simply rolled over in his bed, not caring who was talking to him, only trying to drown it out.  
  
"I said up, oh-one-eight!" After these words, Jack felt caught a high- voltage shock in the stomach courtesy of a stun prod. Jack doubled over in his bed, gasping for breath. He looked up and saw a menacing, looming African-American man. His hair, hidden underneath a camouflage cap, was brown with gray along the sides, showing that he was likely a seasoned veteran.  
  
"For those of you who don't know, I am Lieutenant Major Lawrence Chambers," his bass voice boomed across the room. Jack then looked around said room and saw that he shared it with about five other children, approximately his age.  
  
"The other men are your instructors and you will do as we say at all times.  
  
"At this time, you will all wash and then return here to dress. No slacking, trainees! Double time!"  
  
As the others jumped out of their beds, one boy refused, but not for long. Chambers was quickly on him with his stun prod, shocking the young man in his ribs, dropping him instantly, lightning surging across his chest.  
  
"Get up, trainee!"  
  
The boy knew better than to stay down and he ignored the pain and triple- timed it to the showers.  
  
As Jack approached the showers, he eyed the other children around him. They looked scared. Had they been through what he had? Jack had no time to think any more of the question, however, as the showers were turned on after everyone had stripped of their gear and found a bar of soap and a washcloth.  
  
They all washed their bodies in an icy cold spray. Many shuddered in the iciness of the water, but Jack didn't complain. It took too much energy to do so. He simply washed and rinsed, and rushed back to his quarters, drying off with a damp towel while doing so. He threw on a BDU identical to the one, which he'd worn before with the exception of the top, which had short sleeves.  
  
"Outside, now! On the double!" Chambers instructed.  
  
The frightened children rushed outside into the frigid air; the sun hadn't even risen yet.  
  
"Line up in five rows of twelve, trainees," they all heard their instructor bark. Jack stepped into the fifth row, where he saw a friendly-looking kid, about his age.  
  
"I'm Jack," he said as his hand extended for a shake.  
  
The young black man shook his hand.  
  
"Ryan."  
  
"Trainees! No talking! Are those lines formed yet?"  
  
After examining the work of his young men, Chambers commented,  
  
"Good job. Now, jumping jacks! Everyone, count off from one to one hundred! Anyone loses count, we start over and do two hundred."  
  
Jack had never done so much work in his life. He barely had the breath to count off, but fought the pain.  
  
The trainees shouted in unison,  
  
"Ninety eight, ninety nine, one hundred!"  
  
"Alright, sit ups! No slacking, trainees! Count off to one hundred. If anybody quits, they'll run the three-mile lap around the compound and come back to do three hundred push ups. Count!"  
  
Jack sat down in the grass, wet with dew and light rain and started his sit ups, counting off with the others.  
  
He finished the exercise, well aware of the consequences of quitting. He stood and threw up, and got a baton whip in the stomach for it. Pain swept through his stomach, but he somehow fought the agony and stayed on his feet. He got another baton whip for that, which dropped him to the grassy ground beneath him. Jack played possum, hoping not to get another whip, and stayed down.  
  
"Up, trainee!" the instructor who had shocked him snapped at him. Jack stood and finished the exercises.  
  
Squats and push-ups followed. One hundred of each. Jack couldn't go on, but he knew he'd get a stun prod to the stomach, or worse, if he didn't continue. His limbs were weak, only sluggishly responding to what his brain told them to do.  
  
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he heard the best word that he'd heard in a while.  
  
"Rest," Chambers told the trainees.  
  
All of the children slumped on the ground as soon as the word escaped his lips, and the Lieutenant Major turned to the trainers.  
  
"Trainers, get the water."  
  
They nodded and ventured into the compound, returning with crates full of bottled water. Jack instantly found himself in front of a crate, snatching a bottle and gulping the salty, lukewarm water down. He didn't care, however. It was the best, most refreshing water that he'd ever had.  
  
He looked at the others. Most were doubled over, clutching their sides, gasping for oxygen. Empty water bottles littered the floor around them. One child asked for more.  
  
"What do you think, water grows on trees, trainee?!" Chambers asked. "One bottle for each of you."  
  
Normally, young men their age would probably have let out respective groans of dissatisfaction, but knew that a baton whip would follow. Silence filled the air after those words.  
  
"Good start. Now we'll run. Up, trainees, on your feet. March!"  
  
Batons were readied for anyone who protested. No one did.  
  
The children broke into a run behind Chambers, the trainers behind them.  
  
Jack paid no attention to the surroundings. He tried to think about what happened, how he got there and what would happen next, but he could not think straight. He only felt the blood pumping intensely through his body, the aches in his muscles and the growling in his stomach. He was hungry... very, very hungry.  
  
Before he even knew it, however, Jack and the other children arrived at another building, and a woman stood at the entrance, garbed in a white dress-shirt and a matching skirt. A long mane of red hair flowed from her scalp to the small of her back.  
  
She took that time to introduce herself.  
  
"My name is Ms. Wilson. I'll be your teacher. Please come in. Class is about to begin."  
  
The last thing that the children wanted was school, but it beat the calisthenics that they tried to kill them with. Thus, they complied, piling into the "school."  
  
Jack paid no attention in the class. He could barely stay awake after the morning workout. But he knew that if he fell asleep, he'd be awakened by a shock from the trainers' stun prod. So, he stayed awake and pretended to pay attention for the hour of class.  
  
When the lesson ended, the marched outside and were instructed by Chambers to follow him for a "short walk," which ended up being a two mile jog. They then approached another obstacle course.  
  
"This, as you all know, is an obstacle course," Chambers told the trainees. "Your objective is to ring the bell." He motioned to a bell right above him, about twenty feet above the ground. "There are many different ways to achieve this goal, but I'll leave it up to you to find the best route.  
  
"Now, teams. Trainees, form ten lines of six. The first person in each row will be team one. The second will be team two. If you do not understand, say so now."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Good. When your team has rung the bell, please come tell me and I will determine a winner after you've all finished."  
  
One trainee spoke up. It was the first time someone outside of the adults had said anything.  
  
"A winner? What do you win?"  
  
"Good question," Chambers responded. "The winner gets to eat. The team that comes in first will win a turkey, mashed potato, and ice cream dinner.  
  
"But with winners, there must come one or more losers. Finish last, and you do _not_ eat."  
  
Jack's team, in the end, wound up losing. They came in last, and when they went into the mess hall, each member of his team was given a bottle of the same salty, warm water; it did nothing for their immense appetites, however.  
  
Finally, at long last, the day was over. Jack was hungry, tired, and hurting, but took no time to whine about it.  
  
He simply collapsed into his pillow, sleep instantly enveloping his consciousness.  
  
He would participate in this same, droning, tedious schedule—exercise, school, obstacle course game, sleep—for many, many more years. This was his new home... the battlefield.


End file.
